


The Spirit of Pride

by SeidrNightwatch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Reality, Comfort/Angst, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Dread Inquisitor, Eventual Skyrim & Friends, F/F, F/M, Friendship/Love, God slaying & blasphemy, Lavellan may be smarter than Solas, M/M, Mind Games, Post-Relationship, Redemption, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Solavellan Hell, Time Travel, Violence, alternating pov, relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:16:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 83,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27651209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeidrNightwatch/pseuds/SeidrNightwatch
Summary: “The Wolf is fast but can he outrun the Dread Inquisitor?”He has been called many things: Wisdom, Pride,Fen'Harel.She has a gift not seen since the days of Arlathan.Each step he takes is haunted by regret. But the path he follows is laid by the power of the Seid. Though he would die to change the past, it is her who wields the power to change their future. He says he loves The Game? Then she shall play it. Perhaps better than he ever expected.Pre and Post Trespasser Fic (slow burn)(Note: Skyrim is introduced later in the work)
Relationships: Dagna/Sera (Dragon Age), Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford/Solas, Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

She walks with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her shoulders tremble despite the warmth in the air. It is the rain, cold and bitter as her tears, that makes her shake. Her clothes are soaked. Strands of hair cling to her neck and chest in wet ribbons. Miles. Miles until home.

She mounts the horse they left tied to the post on the outskirts of the trail. It turns before she’s fully taken the reins, as if it knows her heart. Without encouragement it breaks off in a run toward the stronghold.

-

_Too far. Always, you go too far._

He finds himself in Old Crestwood by the time he is able to stop. The scent of rain mingles with the dust of wooden ruins and spirits long forgotten. No one would come here. He could wait, at least for a moment. Wait among the dead. It seems fitting. Perhaps if he had told her what he had intended, she would agree.

_You belong dead, my heart._

He imagines her saying the words, as if she stood just beside him, watching rain batter a broken hearth in the ruins of a nearby home. He had expected her to say something of the like, after he had done it.

_“I’m sorry. I can’t.”_

Sorry. Yes. He is sorry. For far more than she knows. He had wanted her to be angry in that moment. Anger, and then that easy, familiar look of hate. One he knows all too well. One he sees so often on the faces of the People when they mention him. The Great Adversary of the People.

An adversary. Yes. He can be that. Anger is easy. But she had not been angry. She had looked at him the same way she has always looked at him. Soft eyes, always looking, always seeing. Even then she did not see an adversary. She had only seen him.

_“Please. I love you.”_

The rain has soaked through his undershirt by the time he finds shelter in a nearby home. He feels wrong entering the place without permission. Perhaps its previous occupants still linger here, still call these ruins home. But he cannot bear to return. Not yet. He needs…a moment.

He finds himself standing in what must have once been a kitchen. The top of a table is propped sideways against a broken window and glassware litters the floor. He searches for a dry spot in the dirt and goes to it, sinking down amongst the dust and broken trinkets; mementos of a life long since lost.

He leans his head back against the damp wood. The smell of moss and wet soot envelope him like a cold blanket, and his shoulders tremble. For a moment, he longs for the warmth of a fire. The smell of embrium and snow beside an opened door. Soft silk and warm hands against his skin.

_“I love you.”_

He sniffs and lets out an unsteady breath. 

_You are a selfish fool,_ he tells himself _._

Colors dart in front of him, rain caught in the lights of passing spirits. Some linger, prodding at the layers of emotion around him, while others keep away, as if made uneasy by his presence. Perhaps they are spirits of wisdom.

Stray lightning flashes across the sky. He closes his eyes, silently wishing for the familiar rush of willpower that often accompanied it. The soft exhale of her breath as she lifts her hands and brings the sky down around them.

Indomitable.

That’s what he had told her. Her focus was indomitable. Before he could regret saying so, she had smiled. Such a cunning look on her. How easily he had lost himself then.

He will have to mourn that part himself. It will stay with her now, he knows that. Old Crestwood seems the only proper place for what remains of him.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed before he drifts off. It is not a restful sleep. He never loses the sound of rain, drumming on the sunken roof above him. The cold trickle of water on his ears lingers in the corner of his mind. When he opens his eyes again, he finds himself curled on the ground, the first light of morning scattering the earth like a shattered mosaic.

He stays for a moment. The aching in his chest makes him feel heavy. He watches the light turn from pink to gold, remembering how the dawn had looked from the balcony at Skyhold the first morning they had returned from the Exalted Plains.

_Thousands of dawns. You have seen hundreds of thousands of dawns, yet that’s the one you should remember the most. You’re a –_

“Fool!”

He does not need to sit up. Cole is standing over him, a lithe, pale figure pointing, sharp as a dagger.

“You are a fool! How could you?”

“Cole.” His voice is rough and dry when he speaks. He sits up, squinting against sharp daylight. “You know better than to follow us when we-”

“That doesn’t matter! Nothing matters now. How can it? How can you just _leave_ your heart?”

Cole’s voice wavers at the end, as it so often does. Always so full of feeling. His hair is soaked, sticking to his cheeks and neck, his hands knotted into fists as he begins to pace the floor.

“Your own heart! You have to go back. You have to take it back. Wrong, wrong, this is all wrong. _I can fix this. I just need to think. No, no not again. Leaving, always losing, always alone. You’ll fall for anything, stupid girl. Blood on my cheeks, my chin, my nose. The face of a slave. How could he love the face of a slave. Stupid, stupid…”_

The words make his heart ache. Solas winces, turning his face away. “That is not appropriate, Cole. Please leave her thoughts as her own.”

The boy’s hastened words fall away. He stops, turning to face him in a forward stance. “I did follow you.”

Solas rises to his feet. His fingers run across his forehead as he lets out a weighted sigh. He knows Cole says the words to hurt him. The attempt is childish, but the boy is in pain. He does not understand. He knows he will not.

“I’m glad I did! Someone had to follow the Inquisitor. You left her. Alone. You _hurt_ her. But you can fix it. You have to go back and fix it. _Now_.”

“I’m sorry, Cole. I cannot.”

The words crawl their way out of him like a villain. He wants to shake himself. To sob, and to forget the past. But he could think of nothing more selfish than that.

“No! She is hurting. You are hurting. It doesn’t have to be this way. _Please_.”

Cole’s words twist inside of him, a plea he also begs himself. _Fix this._ He wants to, by any god who might truly be out there, he wants to. But he cannot. He must do what is right.

“It is for the best, Cole. I am sorry.”

He gives the young spirit a stern look, folding his hands behind his back. Cole opens his mouth to speak, tears running down onto his pale cheeks. Before he gets the chance, Solas turns, exiting through what had once been a doorway. Daylight spreads like a warm palm against the side of his cheek.

“We should return to Skyhold,” he says, turning his head without looking back. “There is much to prepare for.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric's POV after the scene in Crestwood

The Orlesian beside the scaffold raises a glass to the brim of his mask. Before he can sip, his companion gasps, and the glass of Thedas’ finest shatters on the tile. Varric shakes his head, a smile ready on his lips, before he notices the way the Orlesian is staring. His gaze swiftly shifts to the entryway of the Grand Hall. He sees the Inquisitor standing at the top of the stairs. Her arms are crossed, hair and clothes dripping with rainwater. Frowning, he looks behind her, expecting to see Solas on her heel, roguish as he always is with her, if not a little sheepish for getting caught in the rain. But why would he let her get soaked?

He waits, but sees only the Inquisitor as she makes her way towards him. Only then does he see the look on her face. Varric steps away from his usual spot beside the fire.

“Inquisitor.”

He calls to her, and she ducks her head, as if she could hide herself in the middle of the Grand Hall. He walks to her briskly. She stands with her arms folded, staring at the door behind him.

“What happened? Is everything-”

“Its fine, Varric. Everything is fine.”

Her voice is hardened, but it wavers at the end. Varric pauses for a moment, looking up at his friend. Everything about her is wound tight. Her shoulders are stiff, jaw clenched, hands curled into fists. Her eyes are red, and the streaks on her face are not from the rain. Varric lets out a long, slow breath, shaking his head.

“Oh Chuckles. You idiot,” he says quietly.

The Inquisitor looks at him then.

“Varric.” The way she says his name makes him hurt a little. “I need… a moment. Will you…”

He nods before she can finish. “If anyone comes to your door, I’ll tell them not to bother you,” he says.

She lets out a breath he is sure was meant to be a sigh. It comes out as a sob, and several more people turn to look at her.

“Come on,” Varric gives her a soft smile, nodding towards the end of the Hall, “I’ll walk you to your room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will get longer as they go


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan's POV post-Crestwood (and all your breakup needs)

“What do you mean you cannot let me in? Varric, this is ridiculous. If I wish to see the Inquisitor it should not be _you_ who tells me no.”

“I’m sorry, Josie. She asked not to be disturbed.”

“I will not _disturb_ her, Varric, and you know that. Shouldn’t you be guarding _his_ door anyway? That was your original deal, was it not?”

“Somehow I don’t feel like keeping a deal with Chuckles right now, Ambassador.”

The Inquisitor stands silently near the top of the stairs. She can smell the food beneath its cover on the small table beside the loveseat. Someone must have brought it in to her while she was sleeping. They had also stoked the fire and cleaned her scout’s coat, leaving it to dry beside the hearth. The sounds of bickering begin to fade as Josephine retreats for the second time since dawn. She is persistent, if anything.

With a sigh the Inquisitor lifts the lid to the silver tray on the table. Pastries are stacked in a neat array in the center, surrounded by a colorful circle of berries, both topped with what appeared to be chocolate shavings. Crowning it all is a piece of paper, more crumpled then folded. When she sees it, she takes it, unfolding it carefully, as the steam has made the paper damp. The words inside are written in a messy scribble.

_Say the word, and he’s got bees. Or an arrow. Take your pick. Pays to have friends, yeah? Really, though. Not even a word. The bees are already happening._

Sera’s voice bleeds through the words on the page. There are several X’s on the paper that look like targets, and a crudely drawn bug with a dagger on its hind end. She wants to laugh, but it comes out as a sob. Tears blur her vision, and she sets the note beside the tray, covering it with the lid.

She crosses her arms and approaches the open door beside the fireplace. Cold air sweeps through the room. The light of dawn has grown from pink to gold, turning the snow on the mountains to honey.

_“It would be kinder, in the end…”_

Her eyes fleet away from the light of morning. The Inquisitor turns to face her empty room. There are things of his, little things, still lingering around her. His favorite writing pen on her desk. A soft rag to wipe the paint from his hands draped over the railing of the stairs. She does not wish to think of the extra clothes in her drawers. Will she bring them to him, or let him come for them?

She approaches her desk, arms still folded, and looks down at the blank sheets of paper on the desk. She wants to write, though she is not sure to who. Perhaps her Keeper, or someone in the clan. Anyone outside of Skyhold. Far away, away from these walls and its people, anything to remind her there was life beyond this feeling. Instead she crawls back into bed, and wraps herself in the blankets. The world goes dark as she pulls them over her head. 

For a moment she feels small. She remembers when she was a child, and the Keeper had not room but for one of them, so she and her brother had to share everything. At night, curled beneath the blankets of their bedroll, they would tell stories, and secrets they had heard around the camp. It grew to be a game between them. Who could be the best spy? Most of the secrets were useless. Some of love, or hidden treasures they were too young to yet pursue.

Eventually his laughter would fade, and his words would trail off, until she was left with nothing but the sound of his breathing beneath the fur blankets. She had always felt lucky as a child, to have someone she never doubted. No matter what, at the end of the day, she’d always had her brother. Those nights, there was no imagining an end. Everything was certain. She had not yet known she could lose something so close to her heart. Just like she would have never imaged that Solas…

With a curse, she throws the covers back from her head. The knocking from downstairs is incessant, growing louder as it continues.

“Damnit, Varric.”

She sighs, swinging her legs off the bed. Her bare feet touch the cold tile.

“Inquisitor!”

If it had been anyone else, she would think it was an urgent matter. When she swings the door open, Dorian is standing on the other side. He takes her in for a moment. Then he shakes his head.

“Oh no. No, no. This simply will not do. Not for the leader of the Inquisition.”

She stands on her toes and peers around him but sees no sign of Varric.

“I have sent your doorman on an errand. We came to a mutual understanding, you see.”

Dorian steps around her and begins to ascend the stairs to her quarters.

“A mutual understanding?” Her voice is hoarse, but nonetheless skeptical.

“Indeed,” he boasts. “We both agreed that having a member of the Inquisitor’s inner circle out running about with clearly no real morals or superior judgment was not in the best interest of the Inquisition. And considering that I am known more for my superb tastes than my charity and kindheartedness, we agreed it was best to send a small dwarf, and not a Tevinter mage to hunt down the elf. I am positive you would have agreed.”

The Inquisitor begins ascending the steps behind him. He pauses, waiting for her at the top of the stairs.

“Solas has not returned?” she asks.

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “Did you expect he would?”

Something ignites in her then. She lets out a small breath, a hiss, and Dorian nods.

“My thoughts exactly, friend.”

“We should send more than just Varric,” she says, passing him as he steps aside. 

“You assume we have not thought of that. Believe me, no one wanted to go more than Cullen. I rejected him on the notion you wanted Solas returned alive. Blackwall as well. I wasn’t about to send the Inquisitor’s biggest fan to hunt such a ready-made target. Too easy to say someone slipped and fell on his sword three or four times.”

“Dorian…”

She didn’t want to admit that his words hurt. That the idea of Solas losing friendships broke her heart. He would need them, now more than ever. Luckily, she did not have to say it. Dorian must have seen it on her face.

“That was all I had to say on the matter anyway,” he says, waving his hand. “Though I did petition Varric to see if Fenris would lend his right hook for one more occasion. I’m still not sure if the dwarf can see straight after the last one.”

A laugh sparks inside of her, and a touch of a smile turns her lips, though it fades just as quickly as it comes. Dorian is shaking his head, chuckling to himself at the memory of the elf, so out of place among the soldiers of Skyhold, walking straight in through the gate, up the steps to the Grand Hall, towards their table. It could not have been more than a week since Varric sent the letter telling him Hawke was alright, and that they had gone through the Fade, though they had lost Stroud. She had been sitting next to Solas, sipping ale as she’d watched him bluff his way through a game of Wicked Grace with Varric. She had only noticed Fenris when he was no less than a foot away.

She had never seen him before, though she’d read about him in Varric’s book. The blue lines that covered his skin were bright like a rune under the light of veilfire. Without a word Fenris had jumped on the table, grabbed Varric by the collar, shouted, _“In the Fade?”_ and hit him right in the face.

Solas had found the shouting bit to be particularly funny, out of the blue as it was. It had become somewhat of a private joke between the two of them. He liked to whisper the words to her, “In the Fade,” whenever he wanted to see her laugh. The thought of it now makes it hard to breathe.

Dorian’s hand touches her shoulder, and she feels herself sink down into the loveseat beside the stairs.

“I see someone has been trying to feed you, at least. You should eat,” he says softly.

She watches him lift the lid to the tray.

“My god, if you don’t, I will. Is this what they normally feed you?”

The Inquisitor lets out an empty laugh. “No,” she says dryly. “Somehow even the chef knows. Wonderful.”

“Word travels fast here. Especially when it pertains to our Dearest Inquisitor.” At first his tone is light. But soon his smile fades. He takes a seat beside her. “There are many here who support you, my friend. Not just in a political sense. You have proven yourself worthy of the title of Herald. You are not only a leader, but a shelter for refugees, a symbol of Order in Orlais, and a friend to many here. The people know your heart. They would not cherish to see it broken. Nor would I.”

She lets Dorian take her hand and squeeze it gently. When he looks at her, she does her best to conjure a smile.

“If this is your idea of cheering me up, you should do it more often,” she says.

His smile turns lively again, and he stands, letting go of her hand. “Oh this is only the beginning, revered Herald. The Ambassador is on her way as we speak with some of those fine Antivan chocolates, and a whole stack of plays written by the…lesser talents of the Orlesian theatre. Guaranteed entertainment for the whole evening, so long as I get to pick my own part.”

He does an unwarranted bow, and she laughs, though the tears linger in her eyes.

“Bad theatre, bad actors, and good food. What could be better?”

“Perhaps some of that Qunari ale that singes the hair right off your face,” he says. “I inquired some from Bull, who should be here shortly. His first offer had been something about hitting you with a stick, so I’d watch out for that. But I’m sure Orlesian theatre will suit him just as well.” Dorian smooths his mustache, as if in some after-thought.

The look on his face when he mentions Bull makes her heart ache. She swallows the dryness in her throat and reaches over to the tray of food on the table. She offers the first pastry to Dorian, who accepts it eagerly, before taking one for herself. If she is going to be downing Qunari ale with the Iron Bull she should not have an empty stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just Dorian being the best friend an Inquisitor could ask for


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas tries to have a moment to himself in the rotunda

“Just give it some thought, Chuckles.”

He watches Varric turn and leave the rotunda, scratching the back of his head as he goes. Solas had expected the Commander’s greeting: one long, sideways glance and a hand on the hilt of his sword. Josephine’s scoff and obvious eyeroll as she carried several large stacks of paper had been less than surprising. But Varric… _Damn it, Varric._

He’d met Solas on the road back to Skyhold as morning’s light grew into day. Little was said between them until they reached the foot of the stronghold, where Varric had turned and said, “I’ll be watching the Inquisitor’s door for a couple of days. She needs some time. I’m sure you understand.”

After several long hours in the rotunda he had returned to Solas with a few of his things from the Inquisitor’s quarters. The pen he had given her to write home with, and his clothes from her dresser. But not the painting cloth he used to clean his hands with.

He doesn’t look at them as Varric sets them on his desk. He cannot.

“Thank you.” He means to sound impartial. Mostly he just sounds empty.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Varric says then. “Just… give it some thought, Chuckles.”

Solas watches Varric leave before training his attention back onto his desk. By now he has worked through most of the books he's requested. The Inquisitor has done well activating the artifacts as they went. Perhaps it is time to map them out.

The sound of laughter comes from outside the door, echoing down the Grand Hall as several familiar voices pass by. He fights the urge to turn toward the sound. To get up, and go see what’s happening outside the walls of his study. Perhaps even to be a part of it.

_Focus._

Guilt bites down inside of him. To spend wasted time playing games when such a grave matter hangs over him; what a selfish thought. He had a duty to the People. To his People. To ignore that for a whim would be cruelly wrong.

He spends more than several hours sorting through the locations he had written for all of the artifacts. At some point he grows vaguely aware of some weariness in his mind. Before his eyes can even feel heavy, he is waking up with his head resting on his arm, his fingers stained with ink.

He hears the door to the rotunda open, closing forcefully as a pair of light footsteps trail towards him. He lets out a rather heavy sigh and sits back in his chair.

“Please, if you could, do not slam the-”

“So nice of you to join us again, Solas.”

The sound of her voice sends fresh pain through his heart. He grips the arm of the chair and stands.

“Inquisitor,” he says, keeping his voice trained.

He watches her circle around the desk, coming to face him directly. Her eyes are sharp, focused as an arrow; impossibly green. They narrow, and he sees the redness that lingers around them. The sight makes his throat dry.

“Do you care to tell me why you think it is appropriate to be wandering outside of the stronghold, by yourself, at night?”

The question catches him off guard. Or perhaps it is not the question, but the fact that he has no answer to give. For a brief second he finds himself unable to speak. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Luckily, she is not finished.

The Inquisitor raises her finger to silence him further.

“You have a duty to this Inquisition, Solas. Regardless of your decision, you have been with us since the beginning. You agreed to stay. You offered yourself as both a companion and a guard. You have advised me, fought beside me, and know the inner workings of our entire operation. In doing so, you have agreed to make yourself essential. You are not expendable, and you cannot afford to act like it.”

Her words are concise, calculated and short. Her left hand closes and he sees her face is growing red.

“I respect your personal decision between us. But I expect you to maintain your duties until this is over. I know the way you interact on the battlefield more than anyone else. A fact I depend on, one I know goes both ways. There isn’t enough time to train with someone new.”

It surprises him when her voice wavers at the end. He straightens, and has to close his hands at his sides to keep them from reaching for her. She turns away swiftly, pacing towards the murals on the far wall, her hands clasped behind her. Her head tilts as she looks up at the painting of the wolves high above them. There is a moment of pause. He cannot help but notice her hair, left loose, spilling like silk down her back. He remembers how soft it feels, twined around his finger, tickling the side of his neck as she lays her head on his shoulder. How warm it gets from the midday sun, pressed to his cheek as he lets his eyes drift shut.

“I need that part of your word to mean something,” she says softly. “At least until it is over.”

When she turns to face him again, he can see it. The hints of pain on her face. She thinks he does not care; did not care. Did not love her. He lets out an involuntary breath.

“Then it shall, Inquisitor. Should you need me for any final preparations, I will be here,” he says softly.

She does not look at him when he speaks. She only sighs, bows her head, and returns to the door. He can see Varric waiting for her on the other side. They exchange a glance, and Varric shakes his head before turning to follow her.

He stands alone in the silence. For a moment he feels raw. When he turns back to his desk, Cole is standing beside it.

“You have to tell her,” he says. His voice is no longer angry, but pleading. “Tell her it isn’t true. Tell her what you had was real.”

“Please, Cole.” It is all Solas can conjure. He sinks back into his chair, burying his face in his hands.

“You’re hurting. Letting her hate you won’t help.” Cole is at his side, looming over him. 

“It is better this way,” he says softly. 

“No,” Cole replies. “She won’t hate you anyway. You know that.”

Solas finds himself wishing she would. It was the least he could do; help her realize that it was him, not her, that deserved to be pushed away. Frustrated by his silence, Cole prods at his mind. Solas can feel the faint brush of energy in his thoughts, and does nothing to reject it.

“If you will not fix it, I will” he whispers.

There is a brief spark of light, and a distant feeling comes rushing back to him at once.

“ _She stands at the edge of a battlefield, cradling the sun. Neither fear nor pain may know her. She is their hope. Their guardian, and their light against all that is dark. She is Order reborn. A rare and wonderful spirit_.”

The image of a woman, a slender Dalish elf, one hand extended to the sky, as soldiers kneel behind her. The rush of magic in the air as her will sweeps through like a symphony. The people sing around her, and together they walk the mountains to the place that holds back the sky. Order and Wisdom makes Peace. She thanks him with a kiss.

“Thank you, Cole.”

The warmth of energy disappears from his thoughts. The images of the Inquisitor fade, and Solas weeps silently into his hands.

“I can show her. Please?”

“It will only hurt her,” Solas says.

He sits back in his chair, looking up at the high ceiling, watching a flurry of crows move through the rafters.

“Then I will show her something else.”

The spirit leaves him then. A cold spot lingers where he stood, and Solas hopes that he will return soon. If only to hear another voice beside his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas is just doing his best. Change my mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan and her memories

The world around her is dark. Her breath forms a warm cloud beneath the blankets as she lies, quietly listening to the sound of snow settle on the balcony. There is a peace to the sound, so quiet and muted, like soft whispers at the foot of her bed. As she lies curled in the sheets she becomes aware of a warmth at her side. The blankets tug, and breathing appears that is not her own.

_“We are not lost, sister.”_

The words pierce through her like a flaming arrow. For a moment the darkness vanishes. Light grows around her like the first breath of dawn. She can smell elfroot, and cypress, and her brother’s perfume satchel. A hand takes hers. She is staring out over a valley. Woods surround her on every side. Which way is home, she does not know. They are young; too young to be out roaming the eastern forest alone. But the promise of secret treasure has finally lured them away from the safety of camp.

At first she is afraid to turn. If she does, she fears the feeling of his hand will disappear. But soon she cannot bear it. When she looks to the east, she sees her brother’s face. His gaze is ahead, scouring the trees for a path to take them home.

_“We are not lost, sister.”_

His fingers squeeze a little tighter and he turns to look at her. Her heart grows warm inside her chest. The colors of dawn catch his eyes; green, just like hers. His hair is red like their fathers. He smiles at her, a sly look, far too sure for a boy of only eleven.

_“We are not alone.”_

She reaches out to touch his cheek. But the voice she hears is no longer his own.

“Cole,” she says quietly.

Darkness envelopes around her once more. He is lying far enough away that she cannot see him. His breath is the only sound he makes. After a moment his hand reaches across and takes hers. It squeezes, and she closes her eyes, feeling tears soak the pillow beneath her cheek.

_“You can sleep, sister. I’ll keep first watch.”_

Her brother’s voice again, this time older than the last memory. As old as it would ever become.

Against her better judgment, she does not reprimand Cole, though she knows Solas would have. A spirit among people is already at a disadvantage. She knows he must learn boundaries for the sake of his own survival. Even so, she cannot bring herself to turn him away. She hears Cole sniff. The sound of his breath wavers beneath the warm blanket.

“Ir abelas, da’len,” she whispers, slipping her hand from his and reaching across to touch his cheek. His skin is damp beneath her fingers.

“He won’t let me show you,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

She smiles gently, though he cannot see her. “His thoughts are his own. Thank you for respecting that.”

There is a long pause then. She feels Cole’s energy brushing the edges of her mind. She likes the feeling. It reminds her she is not alone.

“I like that word,” he says suddenly.

She hums in response; a wordless question.

“Sister,” he says. “I like it. It makes you feel warm, safe. Brother made him feel the same. It is like a home for your heart.”

She feels herself wince, and she closes her eyes again. _My heart._

Solas’ voice reaches out to greet her in the darkness. Before she can push it away, Cole’s energy latches on, pulling the night away like a curtain, and she sees him standing at the edge of the balcony. The light on the mountains turns the snow to pure gold.

His smile is soft, his hand gentle as it takes hers, leading her out into the cold morning.

_“Ar lath ma, vhenan.”_

She feels his breath, warm against her temple as he whispers. His arms wrap around her to shield her from the wind.

_“Spend the day with me.”_

It was such a simple memory. They’d spent the morning in the garden among the blooming flowers. She’d shown him the hilt she crafted for the knight-enchanter’s training, and he had promptly insisted on watching her draw the blade. Perhaps it was the look on his face that made the memory so fond. He looked at her the way he might look at an artifact in an old ruin. As if there was a secret between them that only they knew. He’d watched as she extended the hilt downward and sent a sharp spike of energy through. The light of the blade caught his eyes. His smile had been roguish then.

 _“A natural, of course,”_ he’d said.

She isn’t aware of when she fell asleep. One moment, she is watching the memory as Cole brought it to her. The next, she is standing in it. She can smell the flowers in the garden behind her. Solas is looking up at her, his eyes narrowed against the sun, and she hears the sounds of the kitchen staff giggling as they watch them through the open window. Her heart clenches. She drops the sword, and Solas vanishes in front of her.

The garden grows quiet then. The only sounds are the birds fluttering about on the rooftops. She feels the breeze on her neck, and the warmth of the sun disappears. Something lightly brushes her fingers. In an instant she feels cool metal press against her palm. She looks down and sees a hand, half covered by the sleeve of a beige sweater, placing the sword back into her grasp. The breeze graces her neck like a soft sigh. Her heart surges as she takes it, turning to face him. But he is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cue Bookends Theme* I swear this is going somewhere.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter from Varric's secret manuscript (plus notes from Hawke)

“Just let me read it, Varric. No one has to know.”

Cassandra is standing over him, her face blushing red as she speaks. She is embarrassed by her own asking. A fact the Inquisitor had teased her about on the last one.

“It isn’t finished, Seeker. I’m pretty sure I’m locking this one away, anyhow. Or maybe throwing it in the fire.”

“You wouldn’t,” the Seeker says, drawing back.

Varric rubs the back of his neck as he looks down at the manuscript. It was a bad idea, thinking back on it. He should have told the Inquisitor what he was doing. He lets out a heavy sigh.

“What would you do Cassandra? The girl’s heartbroken. I don’t want her getting the wrong idea and thinking that I don’t care. Besides, I was hoping to wait until _after_ I’d finished the book to tell her I was writing about her. It’ll make things awkward if she finds out.”

He takes in Cassandra’s poorly contained excitement.

“ _If_ I finish the book,” he corrects himself.

“As I said, Varric. No one has to know. I will read it in private. You have my word.”

Varric sighs as he looks down at the Seekers open hand. After a moment he shakes his head and hands her the manuscript.

“You are terrible at asking,” he says, watching as she clutches it to the armor on her chest. “Why do you want to read it so bad, anyway?”

She smiles, then quickly reins it in. “Because I know it is a good story,” she says.

Before he can change his mind, the Seeker turns and leaves him on the stairs. Varric shakes his head again, watching after her as she goes. Maybe she’s right. Maybe its best to keep it, just for now. There is still a chance for him to change his mind.

-

The Herald’s arm reaches out, the hand of Andraste herself, bringing the sky down in a blinding flash of light.

“Inquisitor!”

The Herald’s guard howls, turning on his heel to catch the demon that reaches toward her. It freezes on its upward swing. Static builds in the air as the Herald turns to face it. Before the lightning can form, the dwarf raises his crossbow and fires an expert shot through one of its eyes.

“I told you I never miss, Solas!” the handsome dwarf says.

The Herald’s guard pays him no mind. His eyes are like a hunter’s, fixed solely on his prey. The last demon vanishes in a flash of lightning. They stand behind her as her left hand raises toward the sky and the light of Andraste grows around them. It swirls through the air before surging forward, piercing the wound in the heavens, and mending it to a close.

The Herald’s guard approaches her once the light has faded.

“Are you alright?” he pants.

Part of her armor has been singed by the demon’s fire. He reaches for her, then stops himself. The Herald smiles, a divine and graceful gesture.

“I’m alright,” she says. “Good save.” Her hand rubs her shoulder.

The guard returns her smile with his own. The look is rather crafty on his dignified features.

“I would consider it more than a save, aiding the Herald of Andraste,” he says with amusement.

She hums in pleasant laughter.

“I barely even got to swing on that one.” The Iron Dragon approaches the pair, hauling his massive sword over one shoulder.

The Herald’s guard turns to look at him. “You are there to draw attention from the Inquisitor,” he says, as if the Dragon’s remark is somehow foolish. “Whether or not you get to swing is hardly the point.”

The Dragon seems less than concerned. “Sure, sure,” he says. “Or maybe you just want me out there to stand and look pretty.” His eyes skate over the guard and onto the Herald as he passes the pair. He gives her a wink.

The dwarf shakes his head, too wise to make such a mistake. He welcomes the shade as the Qunari comes to stand beside him. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” the dwarf sings out of the corner of his mouth.

“Hmm?” The Dragon raises his eyebrow, sticking his blade into the dirt.

“The Herald,” the dwarf whispers.

“What about her?”

The Qunari has only been traveling with them for several days. He is a hell of a fighter, but not always subtle in his confidence. Especially when it comes to the Herald.

“You wanna get to her, you have to get passed her guard dog. And she takes him everywhere.”

“What? Him?” He seems deeply amused for a moment. Then he frowns.

They watch as the Herald approaches the edge of the cliff to scout the path ahead. Her guard stands close by, hands clasped behind his back. After a moment she calls him forward. They deliberate over something briefly. Suddenly, the Herald smiles. The guard does the same, and the sounds of their laughter carry across the open field. He brings his mantle over her shoulders as they turn and start back in their direction.

“Damn,” The Dragon says. “Why are all the redheads taken?”

_Varric, wheres the smut?? -Hawke_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas remembers an intimate moment with Lavellan

The air is cold here. The smell of embrium and damp soil carries on the wind. Above him, the stars are bright enough to guide his path. He does not wander far before he sees her. Her hair flurries with the cool wind; ribbons of silk beneath the full moon. The animals of the Hinterlands coo in their waking sleep, as if they sense his disturbance. Somewhere in the trees an owl makes itself known.

Soft footsteps approach from the trees. He watches himself for a moment; emerging from the forest, standing behind her as he pauses to deliberate. _Turn back, you fool_ , he thinks. _Spare her._

But he does not. He cannot. And he never could. Against his better judgment, Solas lets himself wander closer. He feels the night as if for the first time, when nervousness was still fresh, his longing undampened by fear and regret. He lets himself get pulled deeper. The lines of time grow blurred. In an instant he is there, living the memory as if for the first time.

“Inquisitor.”

She turns her head, but not far, as if she knows the sound of his voice. Her profile in the moonlight makes him feel strangely warm.

“Solas.”

She is standing at the edge of the hill, arms crossed against the cold. After a moment of deliberation he decides to come closer. He stops beside her at the edge of the cliff. Far below he can see the torches and small pit fires of the refugee camp.

“You should not wander so far alone,” he says.

He sees her smile then. It is a soft gesture, meant only for herself. Yet he cannot take his eyes from it.

“Perhaps,” she says, watching the shapes of the people below. “Though I wandered alone at night plenty when I was just Lavellan.”

There is a longing in the way she speaks then. He turns away from her, tilting his head as he looks down at the encampment.

“Were you a scout?” he asks.

“We were,” she sighs.

His ears perk at the word 'we.'

“We spent most of our time away from our camp. Though I loved it all the same. I was many things to them. Scout, guard, spy,” she smirks again at the last word. “So many things have changed. Yet the question remains the same; am I doing enough?” She speaks quietly, the cadence of her words like a secret lullaby. He feels her turn to look at him.

Her eyes are large and round as the moon. There is no slyness to them now. No air of secrecy. She is open and vulnerable; asking.

His heart clenches, and he cannot help but smile softly. “You are wise to even ask such a question,” he says. “Many have led thousands under their own banner, yet never asked the same. You are a rare spirit, Lavellan. I have seen you do more for these people in the brief time I have known you than most would do in their entire lives.”

“That can’t be true.” Her shoulders stiffen against the wind as she tightens her arms around herself.

He clasps his hands beneath the warmth of his mantle. “I have seen much in my travels. Battle torn towns and cities. Men and women who call themselves leaders of their people. Refugees are rarely the main concern in a war. Often they are no concern at all.”

Her gaze searches his intently, as if his words feed some part of her. He can feel her emotions swirl softly around her, probing, reaching for him, curious and bright. The feeling is muted, but present, and he longs for her to feel his in return.

“How can you do that?” she says suddenly.

He raises an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Flatter me and offer me advice in the same breath.”

He chuckles, and some of the roguish edge returns to her features. “It is my nature to answer curious questions, I suppose,” he says. “As for complementing you-” his smile broadens, “That is far from difficult.”

Her cheeks turn a spectacular shade of pink and he feels her energy grow warm. He can almost hear it hum. She turns her gaze back to the encampment. The wind picks up, sweeping her long hair from her shoulders, revealing her delicate neck to the cold. He sees her shiver.

He should not; he knows that. He has already encouraged her too much. But in that moment, he cannot conjure the will to stop himself. It seems to be a skill of hers to make it so.

Unclasping his hands, he reaches for the edge of his cloak and brings it around her, draping it over her shoulders. She stiffens at first. Then her hand takes the edge and she pulls tight. Her elbow prods against his side as she situates herself beneath the fabric. He is still as she leans into him. She makes a small, pleasant sound.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Oh, makers you are _warm_.”

Suddenly her arms wrap around him. Her hands dig into the space between his left arm and side. He feels her fingers wiggle in attempt to draw the blood back. Heat rushes to his face as she buries her nose against his chest. She shivers against him. 

Something tugs at his mind. Some brief semblance of reason, telling him to pull away, that he should not encourage her any more. But the voice is small. And the feeling she gives him makes it weak in comparison.

He draws his arms around her, wrapping her in his cloak. Her warm breath rushes out to greet his neck. He hears her hum in quiet pleasure, and the sound makes him feel weak. He cannot resist burying his face against the top of her head. Her hair smells of fire smoke and evening dew as he draws in a quiet breath.

He can feel himself start to fade then. The memory becomes thinner. The sweetness of the moment feels distant, then vanishes altogether. The warmth of her breath grows cold. Her hands stiffen and grasp, and sorrow splits him open like a war axe.

“I am sorry, my heart,” he whispers. If he could not tell her in earnest, he would tell this part of her, here. “I am so sorry.”

Her breathing stops. The wind falls silent, and all at once he is aware of her pulling away. Her face turns to gaze up at him. Her eyes are wide again, not asking. Hoping. 

“Solas?”

He draws away from her quickly. _Foolish_ , he calls himself. She reaches for him as he steps back. This is not his memory. It is hers.

“Stay,” she says.

Oh how he longs to. He wishes he could tell her as much. But that will only give her hope. It pains him most to take that from her. But he must.

He feels her hand rest against his shoulder.

“Wake up,” he says softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give me that sweet Fade angst


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan trying her damnedest

The Inquisitor sits up on her bedroll. The night’s cold still lingers inside the tent. Outside she can smell the smoke of a fire, and the salty scent of meat roasting on the flame.

She wipes the tears from her cheeks and reaches over to the water bladder beside her blankets. Someone smacks one of the tent flaps in an attempt to knock. She lets out an audible sigh.

“Oh, yes, sigh indeed, friend. I’ve been awake for a whole of five minutes and already I feel like my brain is being pulled out of my skull by a bunch of tiny nugs.”

Dorian’s voice is hardly muffled by the tent canvass.

“Hell of a way to say good morning,” she says.

She watches as his arm sweeps the flap back and he enters the tent.

“Oh good. You’re awake.”

He ducks in and stands at the entrance of the tent.

“You should hurry. I fear Our Most Royal Highness will be awake any minute. Don’t want to be accused of every failure for the foreseeable future just because you lingered in bed a moment past dawn.”

She takes another swing of water, resting her arm on her knee. “Dorian, if I had known you and Vivienne didn’t get along I would not have brought you. Believe me.”

“And believe me, your worship, I would not have come. But honestly!” He is smiling as he comes to offer her his hand. She is not shy to stand in front of him in only her underclothes. Though he assesses her, it is seems merely out of concern. Dorian takes the water bladder from her hand and unhitches his own from his belt. She watches him fill her container with the contents of his own.

“At least Solas has made himself useful. I never thought I’d see the day when I considered an apostate a better companion than a member of the Imperial Court. At least he can hunt. And a master, at that! A nice sized boar if I’ve ever seen one. I smelled it cooking the moment I woke up. Thought I was still dreaming of Tevinter.”

The Inquisitor turns her back to him as she begins pulling clothes from the ground. She gives each garment a hearty shake as she puts them on.

“He also cautioned me that I insulted you last night during our little pre-camp chat. I wanted to apologize. I did not realize that his apostate hobo garb had been fashioned by the Herald of Andraste herself.”

Finally, the Inquisitor laughs. That seems to settle something in him.

“All is well, Dorian. Though I could stand for you three to get along better.”

Last night she’d fought a Pride demon with a headache the size of Thedas.

“I assure you, my friend,” Dorian said, straightening the mantle on her shoulders as she turns around, “If we could, we would.”

She studies his face as he fastens the buckles to her chest plate. There is a familiarity to him that reminders her of home. Something she is sure he would never agree with. Perhaps it is simply his composure that reminds her so much of her brother. The way his mouth carries a smile, and the little gaps he always fills in for her, like bringing her water, and knowing when to ask if she’s alright. Either way, it is a fact she has kept only to herself.

Dorian lets out a rather heavy sigh and turns back towards the front of the tent.

“Time to face the music,” he says.

Solas is kneeling by the fire when she emerges. His eyes find hers, then quickly fleet away. She comes to stand beside him as he rakes the coals with the end of a stick.

“You’ve done well,” she says, admiring the boar on the spindle.

She sees him swallow.

“More than well,” his tone is light, an odd match to the serious look on his face. “I brought two others to the refugee camp before dawn. It seems it was a good day for a hunt.”

“Before dawn?”

He does not look at her when she speaks.

“You must have hardly slept, considering such an impressive yield.”

Solas pulls the knife from his belt. He holds the blade over the open flame for a moment before standing. His cheeks are slightly red, though it may just be from the sun. She watches him cut a line to check the meat.

“I slept, Inquisitor. I would not deprive myself in such a way that it affects my duties. Do not worry.”

He looks at her then, and her heart sinks. His dark eyes glitter in the morning sun.

“That is not my only concern, Solas.”

Something comes over her suddenly. An image flashes in her mind like a vague memory.

_“I’m so sorry.”_

Not a memory, but a dream. Just hours ago he had held her tightly. Almost as if he could not let go. At first, she hadn’t been sure it was him. But when she looked up…

Her mouth opens, but he turns before she can speak.

“It will be ready soon,” he says. “Perhaps you can spend the time warming up with Dorian.”

Her ears lower a little. So he will not even do that with her now. She watches him as he disappears into one of the tents.

“For his sake, perhaps that is best.”

Lavellan nearly jumps. She turns to see Vivienne standing behind her. 

“Oh, my dear. Do not fret. You are the Inquisitor. You could have a line of men at your disposal, if only you knew who to ask.” Her expression is coy as she speaks.

Lavellan cocks a brow. “Are you suggesting the one to ask is you, Vivienne?”

The mage gives her a poised little grin. “I’m not saying I’m not.”

The Inquisitor cracks a smile, one that fails her almost as quickly as it came. She looks toward the edge of the camp.

“We should warm up,” she says. “I want us moving before the sun crests the hill.”

Vivienne gives her a single nod. “As you wish, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lets see how Solas and Vivienne get along, shall we?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas doesn't particularly love circle mages

“We should follow the river downstream. If we keep to the banks and avoid any trouble, we could make it there by nightfall.”

The Inquisitor turns to look at him. Her green eyes probe his curiously.

“It would be easier to see trouble from a distance,” he concedes. “But it leaves us vulnerable to ranged attacks.”

She nods, looking down over the edge of the cliff. An updraft sweeps the hair from her shoulder.

“If the skies stay clear we can keep our ears to the trees. The birds should give us enough warning if anything approaches.”

The beginnings of a smile meet his lips. Always so sharp, so quick to think _._ But he pulls back before the smile can form, tearing his gaze from hers. He must remember himself.

“Well thought, Inquisitor.”

The sound of footsteps approach them from behind.

“Forgive me, but no.”

Solas frowns. He turns to see Vivienne standing behind them. She comes to take a stance at the Inquisitor’s left hand. A ridiculous assertion, if one were to ask him.

“Following the river leaves us too vulnerable to attack,” she says. “I did not travel all this way just to get ambushed by bandits and have my belongings picked through on the banks. Not to mention the bears and wolves that will be attracted to the waters.”

“Forgive me,” Solas says with some amusement, “I did not realize the Inquisitor requested your input. Nor that you had the experience of a scout to make that input at all relevant.”

The Inquisitor glances at him, and he raises an eyebrow. She looks over at the circle mage. “Alright, Vivienne. What would you suggest?”

She is humoring her, he can tell. Though if it were up to him, she would not be here at all. He prefers the usual company of Bull and Sera. But he had not the heart to approach her in order to ask.

“The trees, darling. There.” Vivienne extends a sharp finger towards the hills. Beyond the river, he can see a small game trail leading into the forest. “Traveling through the hills will be much quicker than going around. We can stay hidden, and have a better route of retreat should we be ambushed.”

The Inquisitor inclines her head, following Vivienne’s direction. Her shoulders stiffen in subtle response. “The vultures circle there,” she says. “They do not roost when they disappear into the trees, which means corpses line the path. A bandit camp may lie nearby.”

When Vivienne looks to Solas. He offers her a pleasant smile.

“Vultures circle everywhere, my dear. That is hardly a cause for concern. I see no smoke to indicate a fire. Nor any sign of scouts along the tree line.”

Solas squares his shoulders, hands tightening behind his back. “It is _Inquisitor_ ,” he says. “And it is not the only concern. The smell of the Fade lingers in the area. Should we be ambushed by bandits only to turn around and face demons? What then?”

“And if we are shot like pincushions from the tree line only to be mauled by rabid wolves?” Vivienne takes a step froward. It is a slow, graceful posture, but one which makes his blood boil, and he does the same.

“Enough.”

He looks over at Lavellan. She is pinching the bridge of her nose, her eyes tightly shut. “Vivienne if you are so sure, then we will take your path. Standing on the top of a hill, arguing loud enough for every bandit in Thedas to hear is a worse fate than either of you have proposed.”

The circle mage says nothing as she retreats. Her only acknowledgement is a curt glance in his direction and a rather pointed sigh. Solas turns to face the Inquisitor.

“She disrespects our People by refusing your title,” he says.

He feels the word slip before he cans stop it: _our_ People. He has done so before, at the camp after the disaster at Haven. And again at the foot of the ruins in Emprise du Lion. Each time it feels easier to say. A fact that fills him with unshakable guilt.

Lavellan lifts her head, looking up at the sky. Her hair falls behind her shoulders and the dawn meets her eyes. She sighs, a soft, weary sound, and his gaze lingers on her profile against the morning sun. He folds his hands behind his back. It is all he can do not to pull her to him. She is tired. He can see that. And he has only made it worse.

“We should continue on,” she says quietly. “We cannot get caught in the forest in midday.”

His eyes flash in horror. “You were serious?”

She lowers her head, her gaze settling onto his. “Unfortunately,” she says.

His mind begins to reel. She starts to turn away, and he cannot stop himself from taking her hand.

“Seid.”

The sound of her name is quiet, more intimate than he intends. He inhales sharply and pulls his hand away. She looks up at him. It is the same way she had looked at him last night. Filled with pain and wanting.

“Inquisitor,” he corrects himself. “More than bandits lurk in these woods. Red Templars will be scouting the region, and not simply for treasure. For you as well. It is too dangerous.”

She turns her gaze straight ahead. He can see in her eyes that her mind has not changed.

“Do not do this,” he says softly.

“Mother Giselle has approached me about the possibility of Vivienne becoming the next Divine.” Her eyes seem to follow the circle mage as she gathers her things from their resting spot along the ridge. “I had brought her here with the intention of getting her hands dirty. I thought it would be wise for her to learn what it takes to serve the people, to be a symbol of hope. _If_ she is to be one. She must learn, Solas,” Lavellan crosses her arms and turns to face him. “She must understand that she will be wrong. And what is at stake when she is. If she is to be an example for the humans, let her fear the thin line between hope and failure. To let her lead with confidence alone is deadly.”

So wise. So impossibly wise. _Our kind,_ he tells himself. _Order and Wisdom makes Peace_. He is filled with such longing then. It weighs on him, reaching to go back. Her eyes studied his, wounded and distant. Yet still warm. Something in him pleads. He silences it, quickly, before it can overcome him. He is not Wisdom. He is Solas. And he can never go back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that sad


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another page from Varric's manuscript

_Hawke, if you are reading this, stop picking the lock on my drawer. The whole manuscript smells like ale. – V_

Snow settles on the archway of the ruin, soft whispers on ancient stone. The whole world is white with blizzarding wind. From beneath his furs, the handsome dwarf scribbles on his notepad, his fingers stiff from the cold. The smell of fire smoke and ash warms his nose.

He looks up at the great face of the wolf that shelters them from the wind. It is the only place in the entirety of Emprise du Lion that isn’t buried in snow.

The dwarf glances to the pair across from him, each huddling in their own set of furs. The guard’s hands are hovering over a short mug as the Herald extends it toward him. After a moment steam erupts between his fingers. He says something which makes her smile and encourages the cup towards her mouth. She lifts it to her lips and blows before taking a sip. When she offers it to him, the guard wrinkles his nose. Her laughter glitters like snow on white marble.

“Varric, are you afraid we’re going to throw you in the fire?”

The guard’s voice calls to him over the howling wind. The dwarf looks up from his notepad.

“You’re going to freeze over there,” the Herald adds.

“I appreciate the concern, but really, I’m fine. You two just go back to what you’re doing.”

The dwarf adjusts his furs around his neck as a small breeze breaks through. He shivers.

The guard chuckles, his voice echoing off the stone behind them. “Sometimes he is worse than Cole,” he says.

The Herald is still looking at him, frowning.

“Really, I’m fine!” The dwarf calls. 

She continues to stare for a moment. Finally she seems to relent and turns back to the guard. A moment later a barrier drops down around him. It’s warm and slightly sweet smelling, and the hum it lets off matches the pitch of the Herald’s voice. He finds the sound of her magic to be unexpectedly pleasant. Even the guard’s has a certain melancholy comfort to it. He wonders if they hear it the same way he does. Or if they hear it at all.

The guard stokes the fire with his hand, extending his lengthy fingers to the flames and curling them sharply into a fist. Sparks fly, light blazing in his eyes. A wave of energy crackles through the cold air. His hand hovers in the air to soak up the heat. After a moment, the Herald sets her cup down beside the fire and takes it. The guard watches her with a sort of helpless look as she draws it to her lips, cupping his fingers in her hands, and warms them with her breath.

The dwarf laughs quietly. He knows that look. Fenris watches Hawke the same way. Its a look that says he is absolutely, irrevocably in over his head.

The guard’s eyes search hers, his lips parting, as if some word begs to speak. The dwarf is certain if she were to ask him anything in that moment he would answer her. Soon a wolf howls from somewhere in the trees, and the guard turns away. His face is red in the light of the fire.

Varric sets his notepad down and leans back against the trunk of the tree. He flexes his tired hand, raising his head to look up at the sky through the flurry of snow. The day is quickly fading into evening.

His eyes count the berries on the fir branches as they grow heavy. Beside him, the Seeker snores quietly, wrapped in a several layers of wool blankets. He wonders what Daisy and Aveline are up too in the moment. Soon, he feels himself begin to drift off.

Blackness meets him for a short time. After awhile he feels the warmth of his furs begin to slip away. Cold air nips the side of his neck. His mind begins to resurrect, but before he is fully aware, something warm and heavy drops over him. The faint smell of cypress and lilies fill his nose. The chill vanishes from his skin, and a soft hum envelope’s him like an added blanket.

Varric cracks an eyelid. He sees Solas sitting against the belly of the wolf. His eyes burn like embers in the glow of the fire as he seems to study Varric in silence. His brows are knit together in some deep thought. After a moment, his head cocks slightly to the side. The gesture is curious, and makes him look younger than he must be.

Beside him, the Herald stirs beneath her mound of furs. She is curled against the side of the idol, eyes shut. As she stirs she slumps sideways. Her head comes to rest on the guard’s shoulder. His eyes tear suddenly from Varric. His look of discernment vanishes, replaced again by a helpless sort of fascination with the woman beside him. He lifts his hand, as if he might wake her.

“Come on, Chuckles. You’ve got this,” Varric mutters.

His hand hovers, nearly retracts, then rests tenderly against the side of her cheek. Her lips part, her breath clouding in front of her. The guard leans his cheek against the top of her head. Instead of returning to Varric, his dark eyes drift shut.

Varric chuckles softly. “You are so screwed.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan follows Vivienne's suggestion. Solas is not pleased.

The smell of death lingers in the air. He keeps his ears to the trees, listening to the whip of the vultures’ wings overhead. The light above them will soon reach midday. He glowers at Vivienne as she walks the path ahead.

“I’m sorry, Solas. Is there any way you could walk closer to the Inquisitor? I’m worried she may still have room to breathe.”

Dorian’s voice comes from behind them. Solas does not bother to turn.

“Would it not be wise, Dorian, if we are to walk through an enemy camp, to do so in a quiet manner?” he says shortly.

He feels the Inquisitor grow stiff beside him. “I beg you all, be silent,” she pleads.

“We are not walking through an enemy camp. Do not be so dramatic, Solas.” Vivienne’s voice comes quietly, nonetheless. “And do not be so easy to wear, my dear. These boys will bicker regardless of what we say.”

“Inquisitor,” Solas corrects her.

Vivienne hums humorously. “My point exactly.”

The Inquisitor pulls the staff from its sheath behind her back. She carries it idly as they walk. After a moment Solas frowns, tearing his gaze from her to scout the path ahead. Long shadows creep across the forest floor. He inhales shortly, taking in the scent of the air. The faint smell of smoke lays hidden on the wind. He looks down at Lavellan and see that her gaze is set.

Before he can speak, her footsteps stop beside him. The staff falls from her grip as she inhales sharply, grabbing her wrist. He sees idle magic flare beneath her glove.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” she cries.

Like a reflex he reaches down. Magic warms his fingertips as he soothes the ache the best he can. _It is getting worse_ , he reminds himself. She sighs softly as the pain subsides, and his heart twists inside his chest. Her long fingers flex as he draws his hand away. The warmth of her skin lingers on his.

Vivienne turns. He is surprised to see she is wearing a look of concern. “Perhaps we should rest for a bit,” she suggests.

“I’m alright.” Lavellan shakes her hand and lets it fall to her side.

“We should not linger here,” Solas says gently.

She nods in agreement. Suddenly, she pauses. Her eyes lift to the trees above them. The sound of the wind carries through the branches, but nothing else.

“It is still,” she whispers.

Solas turns his gaze in the same direction. The sound of the vultures in the trees has vanished. Something foul catches his nose then. It is not the smell of death, but something worse, rotted, and old; too spoiled for even the vultures to attend. Before he can speak, an arrow is fired from the trees behind them. It flies, flaming, only inches from Lavellan’s shoulder. He drops a barrier seconds before Dorian.

“Get off the path,” the Inquisitor says quickly, “Surround them.”

Without hesitating she takes off in the direction the arrow had come. He sees a red Templar emerging from the trees. Solas flings his hand outward, trapping him in a layer of ice. Quickly he follows Lavellan into the foliage.

The Templar’s group is tightly knit. They must have stumbled on their party by sheer happenstance, too soon to form a proper ambush. The four of them are able to circle around the group quickly. The Inquisitor charges the Templars with a chain of lightning before they can mount an attack. A rush of magic fills the air as Dorian draws the dead from the ground. One of the Templars makes a run for the Inquisitor but Solas pulls them back with a rift. Unfortunately, his cast is hasty, spiked with worry, and the power it yields knocks Dorian and Vivienne off their feet.

He curses himself as one of the Templar’s lets loose an arrow, catching the Inquisitor’s shoulder. She growls and reaches over to break the shaft. Two rush her at the same time. He catches one in a sheet of ice on its downward swing. A dark haze passes over the other, and he sees Dorian’s hand extend. The Templar freezes before it can reach her.

The Inquisitor reaches to her belt and pulls her crafted hilt from its sheath. With a shock of energy, a blade appears, brilliant as the light of Arlathan. She exhales sharply, swinging the blade upward. The movement is expert and graceful. Blood flings through the air like a shower of red jewels. The Templar makes a gargled sound as it falls to her feet and does not move.

Vivienne takes the other with a second glyph of ice, shattering it into a shower of crystals. The last falls to Dorian’s staff blade. Sudden silence retakes the forest as the dust begins to settle.

He surveys the area before quickly approaching Lavellan.

“Are you alright?”

She reaches for the bit of arrow still stuck in her arm. “Can you pull the end?” she pants.

Solas takes her good arm and turns her around. He curses softly.

“Is everyone alright?”

Dorian is approaching, picking leaves from his hair and dusting off his sleeves.

“Solas?” Lavellan’s voice is quiet, cautious as it reaches for him.

“We should start for Redcliffe,” he says.

“What? Why?” She reaches for her arm, but he stops her.

“Don’t,” he says gently. “It did not go through. It will take…significant healing. More than I am able.”

His ears lower slightly as he speaks. _Liar,_ he curses himself _. Coward._ _You could have told her. Could spare her the pain._

“What do you mean it didn’t go through?” She touches the front of her arm and pulls her hand away. Her fingers gleam red with blood. She curses breathlessly.

He reaches forward, touching her arm. Magic warms his fingers.

_Selfish. They will know you are lying._

Solas pushes the thoughts down as they come. Her injury will be grave if he does not help. He will no leave her to suffer; not while he can help.

“Redcliffe, yes, good idea. Here, Herald,” Dorian reaches for her hand. An arrow whizzes past, skimming his vambrace.

Solas looks up.

“ _No_.”

He sees a bandit standing on an outcrop of rock. Two more stand on beside them. Before he can drop a barrier the ground at their feet erupts into flames.

Dorian cries out as fire flares up the side of his armor. Vivienne turns quickly. Her face pales, gaze darting through the forest.

“We’re surrounded,” she says.

The Inquisitor’s arm slips from his grasp. “Move,” she commands. “Find a line in the circle and push through.”

They follow as she sprints off into the trees. She leads them north, behind another outcrop of rock. Arrows fly passed them in a hailstorm. Solas feels her drop another barrier. Magic snaps in the air as he sends a wall of ice behind them, blocking the path. He sees Lavellan wince as she pulls the hilt from her belt. Something hot strikes him head on and he stumbles backward, blinded by pain.

“Solas!”

The Inquisitor’s voice draws him into focus. He pushes back onto his feet, spotting the mage in the trees ahead of them. He sends his hand forward and knocks her back with the force of the Fade. Dorian conjures a hex as Vivienne pulls fire from the ground at her feet. The Inquisitor sprints forward, releasing a blade from the hilt in her hand.

“Push through!” she commands.

They follow suit, fleeing north until the ground begins to soften, turning thick with muck. Water swells around his ankles. _Shit._ They barely have time to stop before the Inquisitor’s hand ignites, the mark flaring as she cries out in pain. Green light erupts around them as more arrows fly passed. He can smell the demons crawling through the rift ahead. Footsteps gain behind them as the bandits draw near.

The Inquisitor whirls to face the forest, her breath ragged and heavy. Her green eyes are sharp with focus. Something grave comes over her then. She looks up at him. _My fault_ , he thinks.

Her gaze hardens. “Solas.”

There is finality to her voice. As though she is saying his name for the last time. He will not allow it.

He lets his fingers glide across the back of her hand, still holding the hilt at her side. “ _Lethallan_ ,” he says.

A shriek cries out, and her eyes tear from his. Without another word she turns to face the rift.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some good old-fashioned Lavellan angst

She watches the firestorm fall from the heavens like dying stars. Each one shakes the earth as it lands. Dark spots glitter in her vision. She is vaguely aware of the taste of blood in her mouth. Lavellan coughs and something wet spatters her cheek. She slides her leg up in an attempt to stand, but only cries out in pain.

She hears footsteps in the dirt beside her. In an instant, she sees a face.

“You are alright.”

A hand presses tenderly to her cheek, wiping the blood. The face smiles, but the look is sad.

“I will help you.”

She is vaguely aware of the sounds of screaming. Of Dorian calling someone’s name, and the fact that she cannot hear Vivienne. The air is hot and filled with smoke. Her eyes focus on Solas’ face. She feels him press his hand to her chest. Lavellan sucks in half a breath, but can manage no more. Tears of pain blur her vision.

“I know,” Solas says softly, “Ir abelas. I know it hurts. I am almost done.”

For a moment she feels cold. Suddenly air rushes through her and a brief light flashes. The smell of cypress and something floral fills her nose. An animal howls in the trees, and Solas’ voice is at her ear.

“You must rest now. Forgive me.”

Before she can gather what he says, the vision of his face disappears, and the rest of the world fades away.

When she awakens, she is in a bed. Soft blankets pile over her and a pillow cradles her head. She hears the sound of footsteps pacing at the foot of the bed. When she sits up, she expects to feel pain. Instead she feels… rested.

“Oh thank the Maker.” Dorian rushes to her side. “Do you know who would have had my head first? Josephine. Then she would have lined it up for Cullen to punt across the front of Skyhold. Maker I thought you were dead.”

He kneels, taking her left hand in both of his. She winces, but the pain is not as bad as she remembers.

“Where are the others?”

Her voice is hoarse and strained. Dorian makes a pained expression. One of his eyes is blackened, red blood weeping out into the far corner.

“I fear the other two have had a falling out. Shocking, I know. Vivienne has returned to Skyhold.”

The Inquisitor frowns. “And Solas?”

He smiles a little. “You think the Inquisitor’s guard would wander so far when she is wounded?”

Warmth grows where pain had once lingered in her chest. “And you?” she asks. “Are you alright?”

Dorian gives her a winning smile. “An expert battle mage such as myself? You need not worry, Inquisitor.”

A shadow falls on the foot of the bed. Lavellan looks up to see Solas standing in the doorway. He has a decent sized bruise on the side of his face but otherwise appears unharmed.

“Inquisitor.” He sounds surprised. “You are awake.”

She tries to sit up farther, but Dorian stops her. “Easy, friend.”

Solas remains in the doorway, but does not speak. After a moment Dorian turns to look at him. She sees him frown lightly.

“Subtle,” he says under his breath. He gives her hand a gentle pat before releasing it. “I will step outside, then.”

Solas lowers his head, studying her with knitted brows. The expression makes him look younger than it should. As if he expects to be scolded. She notices Dorian is limping as he passes through the door. Once he is gone, Solas approaches the foot of her bed, straightening into his usual posture.

“Forgive me,” he says quietly. “I fear I have failed you in more ways than one.”

Lavellan glances toward the door before pulling herself upright. Solas’ eyes flash, and he comes to her side. She draws her legs toward the edge of the bed before sudden pain kicks in. He catches her by the shoulder before she can fall forward.

“Please,” he says.

His hands are tender yet firm. It surprises her when he does not let go. She has gotten used to him pulling away.

She watches him kneel in front of her, eyes lit with worry. Worry and something else. Something old, like a creature whose name he will not speak. In that moment it calls to her. Yet each time it does, he denies it; a secret not even the blessing of Dirthamen can set free.

His lips part, his dark eyes warm in the candlelight.

“ _Ir abelas_.”

His voice is pleading. 

She searches his gaze, so fiercely familiar, unyielding now as it had been before. Lavellan reaches across and takes his hand. It is meant to be a passing gesture, but he gives it to her easily. Perhaps it is only habit.

She runs her thumb over the back of his bruised knuckles. He rises slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. She thinks he is about to pull away. Instead he steps closer. She is overcome by him then, the way she was so often before. He stands tall, his features wolf-like in the shadows of the room. There is a strength to him that is unopposed; provoking and unapologetic, and wholly indomitable.

She lifts her good hand to touch the bruised mark on the side of his face. He winces as her fingers brush his skin, but he does not pull away.

“You have never failed me,” she says quietly. Magic warms her fingertips as the red bruise begins to fade.

“No.” He reaches up and takes her hand. His voice is gentle but commanding. “I will take no more from you.”

Her eyes soften, studying his. “You do not take my kindness. I give it to you freely.”

Her heart aches at the way he looks at her then, so full of wanting. He is cruel to do so. To be honest with her only in silence. To deny himself, and his heart, for a burden she would so gladly share, if only he would free himself to admit it. It was cruel to her. But above all, it was cruel to himself.

She sees him when he leaves, gone just as quickly as he’d come. He releases her hand and turns away.

“My apologies, Inquisitor. I should let you rest.” His voice is trained, but his ears lower when he speaks.

She scoffs, looking down at the floorboards. “Forgive me,” she says, “That was inappropriate.”

He starts to speak, but stops himself. She hears him whisper something she does not understand. The sound of it is ancient, yet deeply familiar; words only her spirit knows.

“Should you require anything…” His back is to her as he speaks.

“I’m sure Dorian will not leave me wanting. He fears the wrath of Josephine.”

“Good,” he says. There is a pause. He lowers his head. “Then I shall leave you.”

She does not watch him go. Her ears perks as the sound of the door opens and shuts, leaving her alone in the silence.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas seeks Lavellan out in the Fade  
> (Norse Folklore notes at the end)

Solas stands at the edge of the dock, looking out over the frozen lake. The sky above him swirls with the light of the Fade. Dogs bark in the distance as the sound of snow settles on ice. He can hear the clamor of swords behind the hill as Cullen shouts drills to the soldiers.

Ahead he sees a distant shape. A woman is walking across the ice towards the far embankment. Her hair is blown loosely by the wind. As always, she wanders alone. Several seconds pass before he sees himself walk by, following after her.

It is a fond memory, and he is glad she has chosen it. This time he will be more careful.

He watches as she ascends the side of the slope. Her feet are light and expertly placed, giving him an easy path up behind her. She lingers at the crest of the hill to scout the area. When he reaches her, he sees that she is smiling. It is a clever look on her graceful features. She gives him a sideways glance before descending the other side of the hill. He shakes his head, allowing himself a smile as he follows after her.

They walk together in silence as she spends time gathering elfroot along the tree line. She will tell him days later that she does so for the refugees in Haven, and he will feel his heart for the first time in more than a millennium. He trails after her silently as they walk.

Soon she leads him into a clearing where several druffalo roam near the outskirts of the woods. There is an outcrop of fallen rock which rests near its center. She glances behind her, as if to assure he is still there, before making her way towards it.

When they reach the outcrop, she hops onto the edge of the boulder without breaking stride. The movement is cat-like and rather entertaining to see. It surprises him when she turns and offers him her hand. It surprises him even more that he takes it. Her fingers are lithe and soft, but her grip is firm. They stand together, facing the breach above Haven.

Colors swirl amidst the dark grey clouds; brilliant greens and blues, churning together in a cauldron of magic and untold legend. So much power in one small fraction of the Fade. His failure always has of a way of yielding such painful beauty.

“It’s oddly beautiful,” she says then.

He looks down at her, folding his hands behind his back. He does not deny that she herself is beautiful. Though he thinks it best to keep that to himself.

“I suppose,” he says. A neutral enough answer.

She is silent for a moment. Then she turns to him. Her eyes probe his, bright and curious. Her face still bears the marks of Dirthamen. A fact that makes his heart hurt. 

“Why did you follow me here?”

“The Herald of Andraste should not wander alone,” he says simply.

She laughs softly; an airy, secretive sound. “I mean why did _you_ follow me here? You could have just as easily told a soldier, or Cullen.”

That makes him laugh. She seems to appreciate the fact.

“Very well. Perhaps I wished to see _why_ the Herald would wander alone,” he says. Then pauses. “And perhaps I like the snow.”

She turns her eyes to the grey clouds. He realizes then how impossibly green they are. She makes a pleasant hum and takes a seat on the face of the boulder.

“Then you are in good company,” she says.

The breach rumbles like soft thunder overhead. He stands for a moment, looking out over the land. The wind is quiet as it blows loose snow across the clearing. Was this truly why she had come out here?

“Will you teach me how to Fade step?”

The question takes him off guard. He looks down at her. She is gazing ahead at the breach. For a moment he thinks she is joking. Then he remembers their previous conversations outside of his door in Haven. She has always been so eager to learn; and from him, no less. No one else has asked the same of him since his return.

Solas ponders the request. He isn’t certain it would be wise to do so. He cannot be sure of the nature of his power here. There is still so much of this world that he does not understand.

“I can try,” he says cautiously.

Again, she laughs. And again, he is surprised. He is finding difficult to predict her. An idea that should concern him.

“You are modest,” she says. “I have seen you on the battlefield. You are terrifying.”

He lets out a light breath. “Ah. Then perhaps there is much for you to teach me, if we are judging on our skill to make the enemy flee in fear.” He feels himself smile rather cannily. Perhaps it is not wise to do so. Still, he sees no immediate harm in it.

He takes a seat beside her on the rock.

“Is that a compliment, Solas?” she asks. Her voice is light, teasing.

He cannot remember the last time he was teased. Perhaps Varric. But even then it was…cautious. Never so bold.

“I suppose it is, Herald.”

He leans back against his hand, propping up one of his legs.

“Lavellan,” she corrects him. “Seid.”

Her face is serious when he looks at her. There is a familiarity to the expression. A desire to be seen for who she is, not simply for what the people name her. It is a desire he understands too well. A respectable one, at that.

He lowers his head in a gesture of courtesy. “Of course.”

Perhaps he can make himself useful to her in that way. Offer her guidance, as he had so longed to before. To advise and not simply command. The world would need Order if it were to survive what he hoped to achieve. 

“You are from the north, then,” he says, still holding her gaze.

She studies him curiously. “How do you figure?”

Snow is gathering in her hair, glittering like a crown of stars in the light of day. For some reason he feels his cheeks grow warm. He swallows, turning away, but not before he sees her smile.

“It is what they called the enchanters of the forests at the foot of the ancient mountains. _Seid_ , witches of the north. Or so I have read.” It has become a rather convenient half-truth. He finds it more respectable than lying. He has read many things. Just as he has seen many things in the Fade during his long rest. “From what I have learned they lived rather solitary lives. Much of their ways were kept secret from the outside world. Many feared them because of it.”

Solas stops himself then. If he continues, he fears he will give too much away. No scholar today would have the knowledge of their craft. She would not find books on how the tribes wielded powers and secrets from worlds unseen. Nor how many believed they had the ability to travel between those worlds at will. Even so, he finds himself wishing he could tell her.

The wanting grows as he sees the longing in her eyes. She wishes to understand who she is, where her people come from. Such an admirable thing to wish for. And how cruel he is to keep it from her.

Solas stands, offering her his hand. “Come,” he says lightly. “I will teach you what you wish to know.”

If he cannot show her everything, he will teach her all he can.

The memory then had been practical. She had taken his hand, and the moment she was standing, he had Fade stepped to the edge of the trees. She had given him a full smile. One much brighter than he saw back in Haven. He had fought the urge to kiss her when he returned, uncertain of how his will might affect her through the mark on her hand.

But she does not take his hand now. She rises slowly to her feet, her gaze holding fast to his. Solas does not move. The air around them falls silent. Her lips part and she exhales slowly, her breath forming in a white cloud of vapor. Suddenly she draws closer.

Still, so still, like the sound of falling snow on the rocks. He does not dare breathe. She whispers his name as she leans in. He knows it is wrong to stay hidden. He readies himself to pull away. Before he can, he feels her smile. Her lips hover just short of his.

“You think I would not know my heart?” she says softly.

His mind swirls with the sound of her voice. Her breath is close, her hand on the side of his neck, skins soft and warm. Damn him. Damn him for being so weak. But he cannot let her go.

He exhales sharply and brings his lips to hers. The touch of her fingers slide away as he catches her in his arms. She gasps softly. He feels her press against him. The kiss is urgent, filled with longing. She grips the back of his shirt, holding him to her, her fingertips trailing up the side of his arm. His tongue sweeps softly against hers and she exhales gently. The sound is so sweet and delicate it blinds his thoughts. His heart aches for her in that moment. He feels it burn, reaching out, searching for the familiar warmth of her energy. But he pulls away before it is found.

His hands take her arms gently as he pulls away, pressing his forehead to hers.

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan_ ,” he whispers breathlessly.

And he cannot seem to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seid/Seidr: the word for witch/witchcraft in Old Norse. The concept surrounds the idea of breaking free from one's fate and carving a new path.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A page from Varric's manuscript

“You cannot possibly be serious.”

The guard is mumbling, sitting forward, his elbows resting on the table as he studies the Herald closely. The dwarf chuckles, a witty and warm sound, leaning back on the bench. The Herald’s face is an inscrutable mask. She raises an eyebrow.

“If you were to fold, my heart, I would not hold it against you.”

The guard’s dignified features fall blank. He scowls.

“Of course I will not fold,” he mutters.

“You know, Chuckles, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lose a hand of Wicked Grace. Do you mind if I get a few people down here first? Just to capture the moment.”

The guard inclines his head, raising a brow as he looks at him.

“I am not losing, Varric. I’m merely surprised she is so formidable in her skill. I did not know the Dalish could bluff.”

Though he does not smile, the guard’s eyes glimmer as he speaks. The Herald laughs softly. She is sitting with one arm propped on the table, holding her chin in her hand as she waits.

“Call it what you will,” the dwarf says, “But I’d say if you don’t know the tells of the woman you love, you’re just asking for trouble.”

The Herald glances over at the dwarf. He winks, taking a sip from his mug. Several visiting Orlesian’s have gathered around the end of the table to watch the pair play. They laugh as they whisper between themselves, swirling wine in their glasses. Finally the guard clears his throat and pulls another card from the deck.

The Herald watches his eyes skim the cards in his hand as he chooses one to dispose of. After several seconds he places the card he has only just drawn face down on the discard pile. The Herald folds her cards into a stack in her hand, making her card movement indecipherable as she draws from the deck. No one can tell if the card she disposes of is new or old. Noticing this, the guard chuckles.

“After this I will take you back to Orlais, where you belong,” he says.

The Herald smiles gracefully. “In the city? I think not.”

Neither of the pair looks up from the cards as they speak.

“Of course,” the guard concedes, curbing a rather roguish smile. “Forgive me. My heart is not quite so tame.”

The Orlesians beside the table hum flirtatiously with laughter. The dwarf shakes his head, trying to read the guard’s face as he picks up another card. The Herald’s gaze gains an edge. The dwarf cannot help but think of a fox as he looks at her then.

“Perhaps I will have to remind you more often. So you do not forget,” she says.

The guard’s eyes leave his hand. Air swirls passed the dwarf as one of the Orlesians begins to fan themselves. Finally the guard shakes his head, allowing his smile to show. He says something in a language the dwarf does not understand. The Herald's cheeks turn a bright shade of pink.

“Makers,” he hears her whisper.

The guard is gazing at her, no longer studying his cards. When she glances up at him the color in her face only grows.

“Ah,” he says softly. The dwarf watches as he folds his cards onto the table. “If you would not hold it against me. Would you care for a walk, Inquisitor?”

He is always careful to use her title in front of the nobles. A fact the dwarf finds rather courtly in the manner he says it. The Herald stacks her cards and lays them face down in front of her.

“Of course,” she says.

The dwarf watches as they stand from the table. The guard allows her to pass before folding his hands behind him and following after her, smiling as he goes. The Orlesians watch them descend the steps of the Grand Hall. The dwarf takes a hearty sip from his mug and reaches across the table to look at the Herald’s hand; a low tally four of a kind. He sets his cup down and flips over the guard’s cards to reveal a royal set. A winning hand. The dwarf laughs.

“Genius, Herald. Pure genius.”

_Varric, you just had to leave me out, didn’t you? – H_

_Somehow I didn’t feel like writing, “Hawke Spills Ale Part 5” just yet. - V_


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan's POV (and finally some Cullen)

She can hear the horses as they arrive in camp. She stays, curled under the blankets, gazing at the lilies that have been left beside her on the nightstand. Their delicate scent lingers in the air. Beneath it, she senses the warmth of a healing spell, hidden within the long white petals.

The sound of hooves fade as the chatter of refugees swallow the convoy. Moments later, she hears boots on the steps outside her door. There is a knock. Before she has a chance to sit up, the door opens, and she sees Cullen standing in the doorway.

“Inquisitor,” he says breathlessly.

His blonde hair is slicked back by wind and rain. He lets go of the door and comes to stand at the foot of the bed. He smells sweet, like horse sweat and clover, and his nose is pink from the sun.

His mantle sweeps the floor as he comes to her side, giving her his hand as she tries to sit up.

"Are you in pain?"

“Nothing I cannot bear,” she says, wincing.

He sits on the edge of the bed, not letting her go once he has her. His hand holds hers tenderly against the breastplate of his armor.

“I did not know you were coming. You should not have gone through the trouble,” Lavellan says.

Cullen smiles a mischievous sort of half smile. “Which is precisely why I didn’t tell you. I’ve come to take you home. So you may rest in a proper bed, with a suitable number of guards.”

She squeezes his hand before slipping hers free. “The camp is more than suitable,” she assures him.

He looks less than convinced.

“Though I could use some fresh air,” she concedes, “I have not seen the outside of this room in more than a few days.” 

His face lightens and he stands, placing his hand tenderly on her back as she brings her legs off the bed. Pain spikes up the center of her chest. She tries to take a breath, but it catches, and she cannot contain a cough. The taste of blood spreads warm on her tongue. Cullen stops her.

“Are you certain it’s a good idea? Perhaps you should rest until the caravan is ready.”

He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to her. She must have missed a spot, as Cullen’s hand reclaims the cloth after a moment to dab at her chin.

“Even just to the porch,” she says, looking up at him. “Just enough to see the sky.”

Soft thunder rolls overhead. His eyes search hers, kind and open. He lets his hand linger on her chin a moment before pulling away.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Wait here a moment. I have an idea.”

She listens to the sound of his boots on the wooden floor as they trail out the door. After a moment they pause. He whistles, and she hears the sound of hooves approach the porch. Cullen appears in the doorway again. His hair is glistening with fresh rain. He comes to her side, placing one hand carefully on her shoulder as he stoops down.

“Tell me if this hurts,” he says softly.

Before she realizes what he is doing, Cullen has swept her off the bed and is carrying her towards the door. She cannot contain a laugh, one which sends a fresh spike of pain through her chest, causing her to bury her face against his neck. She feels him chuckle.

“Well, I’m glad you think this is funny.”

“I am sorry,” Lavellan says, fighting back more laughter. “I have never been carried before. I did not expect it to feel like this.”

She feels childish, and somehow small. Her laughter continues as he brings her out onto the porch.

“I’m certain that is not true,” he says amusedly. “You are very carriable. If Solas can carry you halfway across the Hinterlands, it is a wonder why you walk anywhere.”

Her laughter fades then. The image of Solas brings a different kind of pain to her chest. She sees Cullen’s horse waiting for them beside the steps. It is the horse she had given him, a Dalish All-Bred she was certain would take to him quite fiercely, and indeed it has. Cullen sits her on the mare’s back sidesaddle and removes his mantle, placing it over her shoulders. His eyes take to hers as he fastens the chain at her neck. Rain mists across her cheeks and nose as she lifts her face to the sky. She draws in the ancient scent of rain. When she looks back at him, he is studying her with a soft expression.

“Shall we?” she says.

Cullen clears his throat. “Of course.”

He leads the horse by the reins through the outskirts of the encampment. She listens to the soft rumble of distant thunder, her eyes drinking in the saturated color of the trees. Soon the scattered drum of small feet chase after them in the mud. Children’s laughter comes as they run alongside their little convoy, offering them flowers and twigs of mint and julep. Cullen takes the brunt of the assault as he stands in front of her. He leans down and allows them to plant a leaf of laurel behind his ear, taking flowers they insist are for her before they dart back towards the camp. 

She sees him run his fingers through his hair. When he turns to hand her the flowers, he is grinning.

“Well, I’m glad I put you on the horse. Otherwise you would have been tackled straight to the ground.”

He watches as she weaves one of the flowers through her hair.

“Yes, you put up quite the defense when it comes to small children,” she says with a smile.

Cullen gazes up at her. She has never seen a king before, though she imagines he looks quite like one with the laurel in his hair. His lips part, as if to speak. Before he can, the sky is washed in a bright flash of light. Thunder cracks like a whip and the horse kicks. She hears Cullen curse as he reaches for the reins. Instead they slide forward toward the horse’s ears and the mare takes off into the trees.

She can do nothing but hold on, laughing as it goes. Her hand clutches at her ribs and she winces in pain, but her laughter does not stop until she can no longer see Cullen’s look of disbelief. The horse takes her through the ruins of an old archway and up the side of a hill before slowing to a trot. She can see someone ahead on the trail. He turns when he hears her, and his look of disbelief is just as amusing.

The mare stops under the shelter of an old tree. When she slides from the saddle she lands on her feet, but buckles quickly under the pain in her right leg. Muddy water soaks the fabric of her tights as she falls to one knee.

“Inquisitor!”

She is clutching her thigh as Solas comes to her side. The horse’s head dips to inspect the foliage on the ground. Solas kneels in front of her, taking her by the shoulders.

“Are you alright? What are you doing out here?”

His ears are low, brows knit with concern.

She is still swallowing the urge to laugh. “Perhaps I wanted to see why the Inquisitor’s guard wanders alone,” she says, sucking in a painful breath. “And perhaps I like the rain.”

She cannot contain another cough. He examines her with a stern expression, his dark eyes darting between her bandages before resting on her face. He takes her chin tenderly and tilts her face to the light. She gazes up at him as he wipes her lip with the heel of his hand. When he draws away she sees fresh blood on his skin.

“You are hurt,” he says with a frown. “Come with me, I will take you back to your room.”

His hand rests gently beneath her elbow. In the same moment she hears Cullen break through the foliage behind them. Solas releases her, rising to his feet.

“Inquisitor!” Cullen is panting as he comes towards them. “Are you alright?”

“Of course she is not alright. She is injured,” Solas barks. He steps in front of her as Cullen draws near.

“I’m alright, Cullen,” she says, bracing her weight against the ground as she tries to stand.

“You would put the Inquisitor on a horse when she is so gravely injured? You do realize she bleeds, do you not? Or is her blood not worthy of the same concern to you?”

“Solas, that’s enough," she says, "You know that is not true.”

Rain is starting to pour through the canopy of trees. She watches it bead on the sharp point of his ear, falling in a soft patter onto his cloak. He does not turn his gaze from Cullen.

“She wanted fresh air. She is not a prisoner. You cannot keep her locked inside of a room everyday so you can shirk your duties as her guard,” she hears Cullen say.

Well this was certainly not good. She sees Solas open his mouth.

“ _Fenedhis lasa_ ,” he says. “You speak of shirking duties, yet you are so far from Skyhold.”

His voice is cool, curling with venom. Before he can continue, Lavellan grabs his hand. He turns to her then. His eyes flash and he leans down to help her to her feet.

“Cullen did you not just say he carried me halfway across the Hinterlands?” she asks, careful not to let anger bleed into her words. "He does not ignore his duty as my guard."

Solas is looking at her. She sees something like regret twist his features. Cullen seems less than inspired. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stands in front of them, his gaze never leaving Solas. 

After a moment Solas turns away from her. His anger dissipates, replaced by a sudden, unsettling calm.

“Very well, Cullen,” he says. “If she wishes to go for a walk, I will not stop her.” He brings her hand to rest on his arm, taking the pressure from her injured leg. “But I must also not shirk my duties. So you will excuse us. I fear it is against my better judgment to leave her in your care.”

“You cannot be serious,” Cullen says.

Solas says nothing.

Cullen's eyes turn to her. She sees his expression falter. His gaze softens.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." He looks to Solas, then to the horse beside her. "Please, take my horse back to camp. I'm sorry if I caused you harm, Inquisitor. I will leave you to rest until the caravan is ready."

Lavellan watches as he turns and disappears into the foliage. She feels her heart give a painful squeeze. Solas is silent, his face a stern mask as he helps her onto the horse and leads her back towards the camp. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Lavellan play a little game

“It was cruel to suggest he does not care.”

Solas does not turn to look at her when she speaks. He keeps his hand on the reins as he leads the horse back to camp. The sound of rain accompanies them above the canopy of trees.

“You should not be so quick to judge them, Solas. It will not help them learn.”

“You have a good heart, Inquisitor. You wish to help them. But I fear I have seen too much of this world to do the same.”

He is aware of the weariness in his voice. If she had come just moments sooner, she would have found him speaking to one of his agents. He must be more careful.

“And you think I have not?”

His heart clenches. “I…” he frowns, but the expression does not stay. “No. Forgive me. I did not mean to imply otherwise.”

She has told him what they’d done to her brother. More than that, he has seen it, in the Fade, in the very worst of her dreams; nightmares that even he could not shake the image of. Yet still she would trust a Templar. And never curse the name of the Chantry, simply for the sake of human hope. He does not understand it. Most of all, he does not understand her.

Perhaps if he were to show her all he had seen. How many thousands of others had suffered a fate much like her brother’s. How men like Cullen, and Dorian, had so eagerly cut them down, cut them all down with impunity, to build their mighty empire on the bloodied backs of his kind. _Their_ kind. She would hate them then, certainly. And hate him, for making it so.

“Solas.”

Lavellan’s voice reaches for him, soft, like a gentle touch along the back of his neck. He keeps his gaze on the path ahead.

“Solas, you’re passing the cabin.”

His feet stop, bringing the horse to an abrupt halt. “Oh,” he says quietly.

He has to turn then. Has to look at her, and see her face, her eyes watching him tenderly. She holds his gaze, and it is all he can bear.

“The crowd is always a different face than the individual,” she says, raising an eyebrow in a somber gesture. “I will not judge one man based on the actions of another. You cannot hope for perfection, Solas. Only progress.”

He gazes up at her for a moment before lowering his head. He lets out a soft breath.

“Perhaps it is you who should advise me. I will apologize, lethallan. You are right.”

To say anything else would be to lie.

She gives him an assured smile, one which he must look away from. He says nothing else as he takes her back to her quarters. The horse waits patiently beside the porch as he lifts her from the saddle. She is light in his arms, her warm breath gracing the side of his neck as she lays her head on his shoulder. She does not feel like the Dread Inquisitor in that moment. 

He hears the horse trot away as he brings Lavellan into the room. Magic lingers in the air, mingling sweetly with the scent of the lilies he has left on the nightstand. He sets her down on the bed and props the pillows behind her, pulling off her damp socks. Her hair is only mildly wet, but her clothes are soaked beneath the mantle she wears. He nearly reaches for the hem of her tunic before remembering himself. Instead he watches her hand slide beneath the red cloth to unlace the waist of her pants.

“There are dry clothes on the chair beside the fire. Can you fetch them?” Her voice is dark, dry and hushed, like a low flame.

Her eyes hold his, green as the trees under a heavy rain. Somehow he manages to turn away. He hears the sound of clothes piling on the floor as he approaches the fireplace. His hands rest on the tunic draped over the back of the chair.

“I will fetch Dorian to help you dress,” he says quietly.

“Dorian is injured. You should let him rest. You are free to go, if you wish. Though I will be expecting you to tell me what was said between you and Vivienne sooner, rather than later.”

He stares down at his hands. His knuckles are white as he grips the head of the chair. Vivienne. _Reckless and foolish_ , he tells himself. _You were reckless and foolish. She has seen too much._

He can feel the Inquisitor watching him. The sheets ruffle softly, and he hears her sigh. He imagines how easy it would be to turn around, then. How easy it would be to approach the bed. To run his fingers along the sheets, and up the side of her leg; her skin soft and warm against his, growing warmer as he brushes her naked thigh. He could hear the sound of her breath, leaving her in a quiet shiver. Her hand would come to rest on his heart before reaching up to touch his face, and he could finally taste her again. Not like he did in the Fade. But here; raw and real, and ruthlessly intoxicating.

Solas inhales slowly and releases the chair. He must not lose his resolve now. Not when it is already so weak in the Fade. Perhaps she is testing him. Either way, he cannot allow it.

He folds the fresh tunic over his arm and carries it to her. Her bare legs are arched on the bed, but he does not look at them. His eyes stay trained on hers. When he is close enough he lays the warm cloth beside her on the bed.

“Ma serannas, hahren,” she says, gazing up at him.

Heat burns across his face. She smiles politely. _Damn_.

He folds his hands behind his back, careful to keep himself poised. “Lady Inquisitor,” he says, turning as he departs.

Rain is pouring off the eve as he emerges onto the porch. He releases a breath he did not realize he was holding and comes to stand on the edge of the stairs. After a moment he takes a seat against the outer wall of the cabin, pulling his hood up to warm his ears. For a brief period he watches the rain. Soon the silence is disturbed by a set of footsteps in the mud.

“You must understand, Solas. The apostate hobo look _works_ for you. It is not a bad thing. You are a rebel, my elven friend. You are right to dress like it.”

Dorian appears at the bottom of the steps, sheltered from the rain by one of Bull’s gigantic horns. They are both carrying a mug in each hand. Bull grins as he climbs the stairs.

“You look like you’re scheming,” he says, handing Solas a steaming mug. The smell of warm mead rises from the top. “Got a plan to kick some more demon ass?”

Solas holds the cup by the bottom, letting the heat sting his fingers. “I had not heard you were coming,” he says, watching his friend take a seat beside him on the porch.

Bull laughs and butts their mugs together. “It was either me or Blackwall. I figured with Cullen here you could use the backup.”

Dorian stands over them. The bruise under his left eye has faded into a yellow color, and he is favoring his injured leg less than the days previous. He gives Solas a haughty sort of smile. “Well, I shall let you two catch up. The Inquisitor would not be pleased if I brought her cold mead.”

Dorian knocks before entering, leaving the door open behind him.

Bull grunts as he stretches out beside him. “So, Solas, want to tell me why Cullen was in the tavern asking the Dalish waitress what _fenedhis lasa_ means?”

Solas chuckles over the rim of his mug. “Did she tell him?” he asks, taking a drink.

The wine is warm and sweet on his tongue. Bull gulps down a few drinks of his own. He hears him sigh when he is finished.

“I figured I’d save the poor girl the trouble. Told him it means ‘I politely disagree.’ I wanna see if he uses it the next time a group of nobles stop by Skyhold.”

Solas gives him an earnest laugh. “It is holy work you do,” he says. “True art.”

“Shit maybe he’ll say it to the Chantry. They could pick it up as a tradition.” Bull nudges him with one massive bicep.

There is laughter from inside the Inquisitor’s chamber, and Solas turns his head. He can hear Lavellan saying something in a quiet whisper. When he turns back he feels Bull watching him.

“Hows the boss?” he asks.

Solas sighs, propping his arm on one knee, watching steam wisp between his fingers as he holds the top of the mug. “She is lucky,” he says. “She will need time to heal before she is ready to fight. But I suspect she will be no worse for wear once she is.”

Even if he has to work tirelessly to make it so. Bull does not look away from him. He senses he is pondering something.

“Dorian seems quite well, too,” Solas says. But that does not appease him. “And Vivienne?”

Bull sighs. “I was hoping you could tell me. She won’t talk about it. Doesn’t talk at all, in fact. No one’s really sure what to make of it.”

Solas trains his expression. “Not even to you?”

The question is probing, cautious. 

“ _Especially_ me. Big horns aren’t really her type.”

They take a drink in the same moment, though Bull’s lasts much longer.

“Listen, Solas,” Bull’s voice lowers; a sign of sincerity, Solas has learned. “What you said in the Western Approach, about me not being Tal-Vashoth, and that I’ll always have you and the boss…” He doesn’t look at Solas as he clears his throat. “That goes both ways. Just wanted you to know that.”

Solas looks over at him. For a moment he is certain he is being factious. Then Bull clamps a massive hand on his shoulder and laughs.

“I know, I know. Enough with the feely shit. But you should know, Sera and I expect two fucking Christmases.”

Solas looks out at the rain falling from the eve. He hears the sound of the Inquisitor’s laughter as Bull pulls a flask from his pocket and pours something sharp into each of their mugs. In that moment, he wishes more than anything he would have simply told her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You have the Inquisition, you have the Inquisitor...and you have me." - Solas (to Bull after Demands of the Qun)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric's secret manuscript reveals a secret about our dearest Inquisitor

“Varric.”

“Yeah, kid?”

“Where do spirits come from?”

The dwarf coughs, spitting a mild amount of ale back into his cup.

“Perhaps you are asking the wrong person, Cole.”

The guard’s voice curls like a wisp of smoke as he speaks. The dwarf sets his cup in the grass, grateful when the boy looks away from him.

“Why do you wish to know, Cole?” asks the Herald.

Her voice is kind, and curious. It is perhaps one of her favorite questions, _why_. It seems ‘Inquisitor’ has been a rather fitting title. She seeks reason like an arrow seeks exposed flesh.

“I only mean, that I am here. And I know that I am here because I came from the Fade. But I do not know how I got _to_ the Fade. Or how others have gotten there.”

The boy is fiddling with his dagger, sticking the edge in the dirt and stirring it around like the ladle of a mixing pot.

“A reasonable question,” the guard says. “One which few truly know the answer. It is hypothesized that most spirits are born as a reflection of the world around them. They may simply appear in times when a particular thought or emotion prevail over a large group of people. Such a reason is why we see many spirits of Desire in today’s world, but few of Wisdom.”

The guard pulls one of his legs up, resting his elbow on his knee as he reclines against the tree. The Herald sits beside him quietly. She seems just as curious as the boy, though her expression is more severe, and less of child-like wonder.

“But that is what I do not understand,” Cole says, pulling his dagger from the dirt and drawing a line of mud along the leg of his pants. “This world is filled with chaos and hurting. I do not see order. So how is she here?”

The dwarf sighs, taking his cup from the grass for another drink. There are few conversations between the boy and the guard that ever truly make sense.

“Perhaps this is a conversation for another time, Cole.”

The guard’s face turns serious. Though the dwarf cannot read him, the Herald seems to pull meaning from his change in demeanor.

“I am curious, Solas,” says the Herald. “Cole, have you seen a spirit of Order here? Perhaps they can help as well.”

The boy sets his dagger in his lap and looks straight at the Herald. “You are already helping. I just do not understand how you got here. You did not come out of the Fade, like me, or like-”

“Why do you think the Inquisitor is a spirit of Order, Cole?”

The guard cuts in before the boy can finish. The kid scowls, turning his gaze from the Herald and onto him. “Because she is too bright. Like staring into the sun. She does not look like me, or even you. She brings order. She wants to _help_ people. I can hear it in her, even if she cannot.”

A moment of silence hangs over them, then. The Herald looks up at the guard. He does not return the gesture. After a moment he lowers his head and casts his gaze aside.

“A word, Solas?” the Herald says curtly.

She stands and treks off into the trees. The guard sits a few more seconds before rising to his feet.

“I am sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

The boy’s pale eyes grow wide. Before the dwarf can reassure him the guard sighs.

“No, Cole. You are only curious. I will…go and speak with her in private.”

They watch as the guard disappears into the green foliage. A minute or so passes and the boy turns to look at the dwarf.

“Come on,” he says quietly, rising to his feet. “They have not gone far.”

The dwarf shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s such a…”

The boy is already walking lightly towards the trees. The dwarf grumbles, climbing to his feet. After several paces he catches up to the boy. They walk a few yards before his lithe hand takes the dwarf’s arm.

“They are here,” he whispers.

Together they duck behind a large tree trunk. The boy peers around and the dwarf does the same.

“Solas doesn’t like it when you follow them,” the dwarf sings quietly.

“I know,” the boy says, watching the pair.

The Herald is standing with her arms folded. She is talking in a hushed tone, her graceful features stern. The guard is looking down at her, his face calm, if not a little sad. He says something which makes her look away.

“I can’t even hear them. What’s the point?” the dwarf asks. Before he can lean back against the tree, the boy stops him.

“Wait,” he says. “Look.”

After a moment the guard reaches out and touches her cheek. He turns her face back to him. His sorrow vanishes with a quiet, warm smile. He shakes his head and murmurs something the dwarf does not understand. His gaze is tender, and deeply caring. When he leans down to kiss her, the dwarf finds it difficult to look away. The beauty of elves can be enchanting.

The dwarf looks up at the kid standing over him. “Come on,” he says. “We should go.”

“I do not understand,” the boy says quietly. “It is like longing, but also fulfilled. Like pain, with only happy feeling. He asks me if I ever feel the same. But I do not know any woman who makes me feel like that. _The smell of her hair as I lean in to kiss the scar on her forehead. Her hands grip the back of my shirt, inviting me closer. I cannot deny her. She is strong, my heart_.

The dwarf feels his face growing warm. “That’s love, kid. Sometimes it just takes a while.”

“She almost sees it. She knows him, just not his name. If she asked now he would tell her.”

The dwarf does not try to make sense of it. Even if he could, he is sure he would still not understand.

“We should go.”

The breeze picks up as the dwarf steps away from the tree.

“Varric?”

The guard’s voice seizes him like a hand on the back of his neck. He turns, slowly, and sees the pair looking at him. The Herald’s eyes narrow as she frowns. The faint hint of a smile rests on the corner of her mouth. He turns to look at the boy, but all that remains is a dark wisp of smoke.

“Ah, hell, kid.”

He looks behind him, but the boy is gone.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas' POV of the conversation in Varric's manuscript

Dappled sunlight falls through the thick canopy of trees, forming long shadows on the path ahead. The world is green with the color of moss and dense foliage. Overhead he can hear the sounds of birds darting through the branches. It is not a good memory, and he wonders why she has come here, though it does not stop him from searching for her.

When he finds her she is standing near the trunk of a large redwood. Her back is to him, her head raised, as if to gaze up at the towering tree. He does not speak as he comes to stand behind her. He thinks it is wise not to.

“My clan is from the north,” she says suddenly. “Just as you said. And just as you say you were from, as well.” She pauses, and he wishes she would turn, so he could see her face. “I have spent nearly my entire life with my clan. But not all of it.”

He has hurt her, he knows that, for not telling her before Cole had. He could have done so more carefully, under the proper conditions. He should have.

After a moment she turns to him. Her posture is straight and tall, her face smoothed into a look of rebellious certainty. It is a pleasant memory, if only for that look.

“There was a time before. When my brother and I were very young. It is only a vague memory. Just a passing thought in a dream, mostly. But I remember that we were alone.”

Her voice grows thin, and she casts her gaze aside.

“I’m not sure how long we had spent in the forest, eating berries, drinking from a spring that welled near a cave in the mountains. Just as I am not sure how we had gotten there in the first place. Or why we had been left.”

His heart aches at the way she looks at him then.

“I do not know my mother’s name. But I know that my father had red hair, and that he was tall.” She exhales lightly, giving him a smile that does not reach her eyes. “It is just as Cole said. I know how we reached the clan, but not how we came to the forest in the first place.”

Solas studies her quietly.

“How did you find your clan?” he asks.

He does not need to know the answer, only that she remembers it. Her gaze holds his as she speaks.

“Just as I found the camp after the disaster at Haven. We followed the sound of a wolf.”

Solas smiles softly. He had not been lying when he told her he came from the north.

“Perhaps a spirit from the Fade had sensed that you were in need,” he says.

Lavellan steps closer to him, arms tightening, her shoulders stiff. Her eyes are open; pleading.

“Tell me,” she says quietly. “Tell me if what Cole said is true. _Please_.”

For a moment he can only look at her. He feels her spirit, reaching, coaxing his towards her, drawing secrets from the hidden corners of his mind. It is the gift of Dirthamen. He could give her such a gift as well, if she would like. One better than the painful mark in her hand. But now is not the time to consider such things.

It takes effort to pull his spirit away from her. Even after he does, he can sense that she feels what he hides. It is only the words that evade her.

“Alright,” he murmurs.

Her shoulders relax, though her expression remains tight with worry.

“It is not common, but it is possible for a spirit to elect to be born into this world. In my time in the Fade, I have seen such moments before. Spirits who have lived long lives and wish to experience the world in a different way. Some come on their own volition. Others can be called to do so, or even coerced.” He keeps his expression trained as he says the latter half. “I have even seen spirits, undamaged by the death of their previous body, elect to inhabit a new body after some time of recovery in the Fade.” 

“But would that not corrupt them?” Lavellan asks.

“Not if the spirit does so under the right conditions. And even if the spirit’s nature changes, that does not always mean it will be hostile. I have seen spirits of Wisdom becomes spirits of Pride and still maintain much of their disposition.”

Her gaze becomes pained. “Would the spirit not be sad? To be called from the Fade, and have their entire nature changed?”

He feels sorrow grasp at his chest, a feeling so deep and old it has become a part of him. Most would not think to ask such a question. When he speaks, his voice is quiet.

“Often, yes,” he says.

She seems to consider that a moment. “And what about the body?” she finally asks. “What happens to the body of the person the spirit wants to occupy?”

“In your case, I would not worry. You have memories of your body since you were young. There is no reason to believe it has been anyone but yours.”

Lavellan leans back against the trunk of the redwood. She lets out a heavy sigh, tilting her head to gaze up at the canopy. “But that is not always the case, is it?”

Her expression is trained, almost stern when she looks back at him.

“No,” he says quietly.

He had been lucky to be gifted a body, long ago, when they could still be made from the earth. He had not wished to be marked. But she had asked him to come. He could not have abandoned the Great Mother of the People.

“Solas…”

When she says his name his heart clenches. He takes her face in his hand, lifting her gaze to his.

“You are you, _vhenan_.” He shakes his head vaguely, his thumb wiping at the tears that have spilled out onto her cheek. “This changes nothing. It is only a new name. You are who you have always been.”

Her eyes search his. “And you,” she says. Her words are light, barely more than a breath. She is pulling him again, searching his mind for the proper words. “You are wise.”

Solas exhales softly. Though he longs to be, he will not lie to her.

“But that is not my name,” he says.

Her gaze never leaves his. “No,” she concedes, “Though you are sad at that fact.”

He swallows. She is close. Much too close. He had not expected her to be so clever. It seemed fitting, then, that she should be his undoing. Order and Wisdom makes Peace. But Order and Pride tears the world apart. It was foolish to think he could stand before her in one piece.

She is still studying him, still reaching. After a moment he feels her questions pull away. “But you can say no more,” she says, “Not now.”

The shift is sudden. He had expected her to push for more. Instead she takes his hand from the side of her face and pulls it to her heart. The memory shifts away then. In it, she had not taken his hand. He had leaned down, kissing the scar on her brow, taking in the smell of the sun in her hair. Her hands had grabbed the back of his shirt as she pulled him closer. Instead he is still. Her hand stays, clutching his to her chest.

The scent of stone and wood wax carries on the breeze, a smell that is strictly Varric, but he quickly blocks it out, banishing that part of the memory. They stand alone in the forest of the Emerald Graves. 

Lavellan’s hand tightens over his. “You are still wise,” she says softly.

Solas pulls his hand from hers.

“Then I have misled you.”

Her eyes study his. She gives him a sad smile. “Then you would have to be very wise to do so. I am rarely so easily fooled.”

He lowers his head, casting his gaze aside. A raven caws from somewhere in the trees.

“But I do not think you have misled me. I think you have tried.” Her head tilts slightly, like an animal examining a trap. “And in doing so you have done something you know is rather grave. You have shown me your heart.”

Fresh air blows above the canopy, scattering light and shadow across her face. She gives him the same look she had before. Her chin is slightly raised, face calm and unreadable. She is dangerously certain. Of what, he is not sure.

“Your heart is good,” she says then.

Solas straightens. Cold realization seizes him, and all at once he remembers how dangerous it is for her to believe that it is true. To let her think so would be selfish. _It would be her end,_ he thinks _._ He feels the darkness as it encroaches his features. It weighs on him as he speaks.

“You are right, _ma vhenan_. My heart is good.” He lifts his gaze to the trees. “Which is why I must preserve her.”

Sunlight meets his eyes. His hands fold behind him. The flutter of birds falls silent as his mind reaches for the light, pulling down, engulfing them in darkness. He hears her gasp. The colors of the forest burn away, razed by smoke and ash.

She stumbles back as the trees behind her vanish. Her eyes widen. It will hurt him, to take this moment from her too. But he does not know how else to save her.

“Solas?”

Her voice is wary. He looks down at her. His gaze is cold, unwavering. After a moment he turns and leaves her in the darkness.

They will come for him, once his work is finished; these so-called gods. If they were to know his heart, they will take her from him. They will make him watch as they destroy her. It is a thought he cannot bear. Will not allow. The world will need her, once it is done, and he is gone. The People will need Order to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "They made bodies from the earth. And the earth was afraid." -Cole (during Trespasser)


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan being the Dread Inquisitor

The sky beyond the window is dark with the cover of night. The Inquisitor stands at the edge of the stairs, her hand pressed against the wooden door. She can hear the quiet murmur of the noble guests below the railing of the Grand Hall. When she steps from the doorway she sees Vivienne standing beside the stained glass windows. She does not turn as Lavellan approaches.

“You look well.”

Vivienne’s shoulders stiffen. The mage says nothing, however.

The Inquisitor draws closer. Her leg is stiff and sore as she walks, and the pain in her chest has yet to subside. If Cullen knew she was out of bed she would earn herself another lecture. She had already gotten plenty on the trip home.

“I am pleased that you made it back so quickly. Solas seemed adamant that you were fit to do so. I am sorry I had not been there to mediate between you two.”

Night air blows in through the open door, sweeping the tail of Vivienne’s coat as she stands, unmoving.

“He is a demon, Inquisitor.”

The mage’s words are hushed and dry. Lavellan stops in her tracks.

“An abomination.”

“I’m sorry?”

Vivienne turns to her then. Lavellan sees her face--sees the long gash along the bottom of her jaw, the edges rough and red, and not yet fully closed.

“Your friend, your… _mage_ , he is wickedness. He is evil, Inquisitor. A demon to be cast out with the wolves.”

The Inquisitor narrows her gaze. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I saw you fall.”

For a moment that is all she says. Lavellan studies her cautiously. Vivienne lifts her chin, shadows casting down her face.

“You turned your back on a demon to pull me-” her voice wavers, and she pales. “To pull me away from an arrow. It pierced your armor. And in that moment the demon cut through you, and you fell.”

Tears form in Vivienne’s eyes that she does not try to conceal. Lavellan frowns.

“And yet I am still here,” she says. “Just as I had been at the breach. And again, after Haven fell. It is the mark on my hand that allows me to survive such things. If that is what you are suggesting.”

Vivienne’s face is tight and focused. It takes the Inquisitor a moment to understand the look that has seized her. It is unshakable, cold and hopeless. It is fear.

“Perhaps,” Vivienne agrees. “Perhaps it was the mark that kept you living, healing your wounds so quickly. But it was not the mark that saved you.” Vivienne’s dark gaze holds to her tightly, and Lavellan is certain there is a moment where she does not breathe. “It was not the mark that reached forward with one hand and smote them all to ash. One hand, Inquisitor. Just one.”

Vivienne’s eyes are wide. Her hands extend, fingers curled, as if to take hold of her.

“He did not flinch. He did not bleed. The moment he saw you fall, he turned with one hand, and razed them all to the ground.”

Lavellan gives a vague, single shake of her head. “I saw the firestorm. Solas has saved us many times with that spell. You must be mistaken. Dorian would have told me if Solas had-”

“Dorian was face down, impaled on a sword. A sword in his back, Inquisitor, and yet he walks. With no marked hand.” A tear spills onto Vivienne’s cheek. She stares at Lavellan, unblinking. “Fifteen or more men, bandits, and demons. From stone to ash in a single breath. He is a powerful abomination. You must hand him to the Templars.”

The Inquisitor is still. She studies Vivienne, trying to imagine what the mage has described. Her chest aches, the pain in her body is undeniable, and the taste of blood still fresh. Yet she is still able to stand.

“And you were awake, the whole time? He did this while you stood there and watched?” Lavellan asks.

Vivienne’s face seems to pale even further. “No. I had been cast into the trees by one of the shrieking demons. He did not see me until after it was done.”

The Inquisitor nods. She is vaguely aware of the tears in her eyes, though they do not overcome her. “What did he say?” she asks.

Vivienne turns away then. Lavellan waits a moment before she finally answers.

“I thought he would try to threaten me. But he did not. Instead he made me a promise.” She hangs her head, shaking it faintly. “Forgive me, Bastien,” she whispers.

“A promise?”

When she turns back, the tears in Vivienne’s eyes have spilled over.

“He promised me my heart.”

Lavellan is quiet for a long moment. Vivienne stares at her, but is likewise silent. Finally the Inquisitor straightens. Any expression she might have worn disappears.

“And yet you have told me,” she says. “Risking your promise in doing so.”

“You are the only one I feel could stop him. Perhaps if you tell Cullen-”

“I will not tell Cullen. And neither will you,” Lavellan cuts in. Her voice is calm and low. “I would careful when crossing back on a deal, Vivienne. You never know who might be listening.”

Vivienne takes a half step back. Her mouth opens, hanging for a moment before she speaks.

“You would allow a demon to sit among your inner circle?” she asks.

Lavellan lets the accusation hang in the air for more than a few seconds. Finally she raises her head, squaring her gaze with Vivienne’s.

“You would do well, Vivienne, to remember that the Circle of Magi has fallen. Its beliefs could not withstand the test of time. I could encourage you to correct yourself. Or…” she nods faintly in a gesture of consideration, “I could give you the chance to correct the circle, if you would like.”

There is another pause. She can see Vivienne trying to work out what she has just said.

“Mother Giselle has approached me on my recommendation for the next Divine,” Lavellan continues. “Though she has her eyes set on a select pair, my word would bare weight, especially if the recommendation were of a mage who still honors the circle.”

Vivienne exhales sharply and her eyes fall to the Inquisitor’s feet.

“In exchange, of course, I would ask for you to remain silent on matters involving my inner circle.”

The Inquisitor studies the mage silently. A full minute passes before Vivienne speaks. When she does, her voice is quiet.

“Very well.” Vivienne’s eyes moved to the railing behind her. “Then you shall have my word.”

Lavellan nods once. She turns, then, starting back towards the stairs. Vivienne’s voice follows after her.

“It is like your stories, Inquisitor. Of the wolf who leads the Dalish astray. Our world needs you. Do not let him mislead you too.”

Lavellan pauses by the door, but says nothing. It is perhaps that moment that she finally understood.

When she steps out into the stairwell she notices an elf descending the end of the stairs. An odd fact, considering there is only one door, and the stranger had never opened it. The Inquisitor frowns. Moments later she is following them.

She sees no markings on the girl’s face as she turns another corner, leading her away from the Grand Hall. Lavellan follows her through several doors until she finds herself outside under the cover of night. The smell of the garden ushers in around her, her eyes swiftly adjusting to the darkness. The elf pauses near a bed of freshly bloomed embrium.

Lavellan approaches, lingering behind one of the columns of the belvedere as she watches the elf. The girl turns her head in either direction, but does not seem to find what she is looking for. Several seconds pass before the elf pivots around to face the garden. She begins to walk along the outer wall. Lavellan waits for the girl to approach before stepping out from behind the column. By then it is too late to run.

Lavellan grabs the elf by the collar and pulls her into the shadows. The girl gasps, squirming as she is pushed back against the column. Only after she sees the Inquisitor’s face does she fall still. Lavellan studies her silently for a moment. Then she takes a step away, reaching behind her back, and draws her knife to the girl’s throat.

“Brave girl, spying on the Inquisitor in her own stronghold,” she says.

“I was not spying.” The girl’s eyes are wide, her face red as she speaks. “I swear, I was only lost.”

Her words alone are convincing. But the cadence is strictly Dalish, and the girl is far too old to be walking barefaced in her clan. Looking closely, Lavellan sees the faint red mark of Mythal’s blessing on her right cheek, just freshly removed. Lavellan lets the tip of her knife meet her skin.

“Do not speak,” she says, “Only listen. Your eavesdropping has put me in a rather precarious position. Because of this, I'm afraid I must put my friend's well-being in your charge. So from this moment on, if I find that Vivienne is anything other than in the state I have left her, I will kill you. If I find that she is missing, even on her own volition, then I will feed you to the Dread Wolf myself. He would not be happy with you, I imagine, to learn that it was you who exposed him to the Inquisitor.”

“I did nothing of the like! I would not!” The girl’s voice is vehement, but hushed.

Lavellan is silent. She lets the girl study her gaze, and decide for herself what she has just given away. A moment passes and the elf’s face twists with anger.

“You would kill an agent of Fen’Harel?” the girl challenges.

The Inquisitor draws in a low breath. “I would not need to. If he knows you are also working for me, he will kill you himself.”

Solas is careful, she knows that much. Judging from his conversations with Sera on how to better organize the Red Jenny’s, she is willing to bet he does not suffer loose ends.

“ _Ma harel_ ,” the agent hisses. “You lie!”

“And you pose a threat to a member of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. _And_ the Dread Wolf, being so careless.” She pulls the knife away from the agent. “Meet me in the stables tomorrow once the sun reaches the mountain’s peak. Or you will force my hand.”

The agent steps away from the column, straightening her coat. “You assume my Lord has the time to listen to such foolish accusations,” she grumbles.

Lavellan smiles then, something which seems to unsettle the girl. “I assure you, _da’len_. I have no shortage of ways to garner the Dread Wolf’s attention.”

She watches the agent turn then, heading back the way they had come. Her hand reaches absentmindedly to rub the sore spot above her heart. If it is a game the Dread Wolf wishes to play, then she will certainly oblige him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to add a little bad wolf in this one.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas realizing Lavellan is too smart for her own good

Solas stands behind the dwarf, her small hands working the finer tunings of a jewel on the workbench. When he clears his throat, she turns, and the rune falls to the stone floor.

“Maker, you scared– wait I know you.” Dagna’s eyes grow large. “You’re an elf. The Inquisitor’s elf. I mean… _wow_ , you are tall.”

“Dagna!”

The man wielding an anvil shouts her name and she seems to reset.

“Sorry. I just…Most elves aren’t so…so tall. And I’ve heard of you, you know? You know a lot about the Fade. More than the Inquisitor, according to her. And she has the anchor on her hand. _Shit_. I’m rambling. Did you need something?”

Solas stands, looking down at the dwarf, hands folded neatly behind him. He smiles in hopes to ease some of the redness from her face. Somehow, it seems to make it worse.

“Sera has told me you have an interest in studying the Fade,” he says. “I thought perhaps you might like some assistance.”

Dagna’s face lights up. 

“Wow, seriously? That would be _amazing_.”

It feels odd, for someone to welcome him so easily. He has been called blasphemous and foolish many times for offering the same to others. Yet when Sera had mentioned Dagna’s interest, he could not deny he was intrigued. The fact that a dwarf could even fathom the concept of the Fade was nothing short of an enigma. And perhaps if he were to teach her a few things, she would feel inclined to share them with Sera. He imagines Sera would be far less hostile learning of the Fade from Dagna, coy as she were around the dwarf. He thought it would be best for Sera to learn sooner rather than later how to curb her fear of spirits.

“I’m not sure I have anything to exchange for your effort, though. I have money? I mean, like, a lot of money,” Dagna laughs. “The Inquisitor has been overly generous with my pay. I could give you coin, if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary. I am curious about some of your work, however. Perhaps you could show me how you tune your gems.”

Her face lights up, and Solas cannot help but feel a twinge of guilt, though he quickly shuts it out.

“Sure,” she chimes, “That sounds easy enough. Did you mean now? I could totally start now, if you want to.”

Dagna’s hands come behind her in an almost shy gesture. Solas gives her another polite smile.

“If you would like,” he says.

To his surprise, Dagna turns to her workbench.

“The jewels are not so hard to tune, once you gather the right frequency. You have to use the proper jewel. Otherwise it won’t hold the charge. Once you have it, all you need to do is put a small amount of your energy into the stone, and it will be able to transmit your voice.”

Solas tilts his head to look at the dwarf, wondering if she understands how a deal should work. Her eagerness only fuels his sense of guilt. She should not trust him so easily.

“It is a spell,” he notes. “Somewhat like blood magic.”

“Blood magic? No,” Dagna shakes her head fervently. “There is no blood involved. The stone just has to be charged with a mild amount of a person’s frequency in order to tune communication.”

He watches her small hand cradle the object on the workbench. Her thumb runs across the edge of the stone.

“Would that make it impossible for interference?” he asks.

Dagna looks over at him. “As far as I know, yes. A stone can only be tuned to one person’s energy. Even if someone else were to confiscate it, it would not be usable. That’s not to say there couldn’t be eavesdroppers. But as far as forgery goes, we haven’t had any problems yet.”

“Is there anyway to control the frequency by turning the transmitter off and on? Say if the owner were to be held in the same vicinity as the stone, perhaps against their will, would another party be able to use the jewel without the owner’s permission?”

The dwarf’s eyes widen. Her gaze does not leave his. “You mean if the owner of the jewel was kidnapped and held captive? Could the kidnapper use then stone then?”

Solas’ gaze does not waver.

“That’s a…scary question, I guess. But still a good one. The user of the jewel can decide when to use the transmission, so its not too good for eavesdropping. As for being forced to open the channel to communicate…its possible.”

There’s a moment of silence as Dagna stares up at him. She seems to wait, but he offers no explanation for his question. Suddenly he hears the door to the Undercroft open. 

“What are you doing?”

Solas turns to see Sera approach the top of the stairs. Her hand grips the rail beside the Inquisitor’s supply chest. 

“Sera! Wow, two elves. I’m feeling outnumbered,” Dagna laughs, and Solas can see that the dwarf is blushing again. “Solas has offered to teach me more about the Fade. So I’m teaching him how to tune the jewels, since, you know, he won’t take my money in return.”

Dagna raises the jewel in her hand. Solas turns, hands clasped behind his back, allowing Sera a place between them.

“What? And you ante up before the tits even made good?” Sera’s eyes flicker to him. “Shouldn’t you be, idunno, anywhere else, Solas?”

He tilts his head, frowning. “Not all of us come down to the Undercroft to gawk flirtatiously, Sera. I am working to ensure the members of the Inquisition stay well informed. Perhaps you should join us.”

His voice grows pointed near the end. He curbs a roguish smile when he sees Sera blush. She seems to notice, and blows a fervent raspberry in return.

“I’d rather pay _you_ to be quiet. Hear enough of that ghostie shite on the run with you and the Inquisitor. If you wanna teach Dagna to be an elfie elf why don’t you do it on your time? I’ve got plans for this one today, yeah?”

She looks to Dagna then, and the dwarf gives her an undeniably sweet smile. Solas feels his heart ache. He keeps his face smooth and unreadable.

“Very well,” he says. “Dagna, when you are ready, you can find me in the rotunda. Perhaps you can convince Sera to join us.”

Solas gives the elf a lasting look before turning, leaving Sera to blow another raspberry as he ascends the steps toward the door. It was not much, but Dagna has given him enough to go on. Once he acquired the jewels he would be able to deploy them without delay. 

He can see a young Dalish woman entering through his door as he passes through the Grand Hall. Varric turns to him as he crosses in front of the bench, but neither of them speak. When he enters the rotunda, he sees the woman standing behind his desk.

She turns when she hears the door close. Her hands are tight fists at her side. Solas says nothing, coming to stand on the other side of the desk, hands clasped behind his back. After a moment, he turns, leading her through the door to battlement.

Fresh air bites at his skin as he walks the path around the corner of the tower. He glances up at the rafters before coming to face the girl. Her eyes do not linger on his, but quickly fall to the stone walkway.

“You missed your report last night,” he says.

She looks up at him in surprise.  
“Forgive me, sir, but I did not. I was there at the time you ordered. I looked but did not see you in the garden.”

She is brave. He can see it in her eyes. He has no doubt she was there, just as he had ordered.

“Then I am mistaken?” he asks.

Solas is aware of himself, looming over the agent, his face dark and somber. She seems to shrink, but does not break from his gaze.

The girl frowns as she shakes her head. “No, Lord. Forgive me. Surely it was me who was mistaken.”

“I am not your Lord, girl. And do not plead for my forgiveness.”

Her face turns red. He does nothing to acknowledge it.

”Meet me here after sundown. In the meantime, speak with Josephine about a staff position in the hold. Do no delay.”

His sharp eyes linger on hers a moment. Then he leaves her on the battlement, returning to the rotunda.

She is waiting for him when he enters, leaned back against the desk, one long leg crossed over the other. Her hair is swept over her shoulder, green eyes raised to the towering fresco across from the desk. He curses himself silently as he approaches her.

“Inquisitor.”

Lavellan does not look away from the mural.

“I have spoken to Vivienne.”

That gives him pause. He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

He feels it is wise to say as little as possible. The feeling is solidified as her eyes shift to his, and he sees the edge in her gaze, one which bleeds with dangerous intrigue. _A game_ , he thinks.

The Inquisitor steps away from the desk. Her face is unreadable; a beautifully serene mask.

“She seems to be healing quiet well. Though she is fairly shaken by the ordeal.”

A pause. He assumes she is gauging his reaction. Solas is not certain what she knows, only that she will be comparing it to anything he says to the contrary.

“I am sorry to hear that,” he says, giving her a single, courteous nod.

“I assumed you would have noticed that yourself. You did speak with her, after all.”

A tease. She knows they have spoken. Whether or not she means at the camp, or on the battlefield, she is leaving it up to him to decide. He must make no assertions here. Only ask questions.

“How are her injuries?”

The corner of her mouth tilts with a smile. “That is partially why I have come here.”

His mind lingers on the world _partially_. So she will be honest, if not indirectly. But only if he can catch her. A clever tactic.

“I was hoping you had knowledge on dealing with scars. I fear her wound may be lasting.”

A gentle request, but he can see in her eyes that it is not innocent. Perhaps she wishes to gain a scope of his healing abilities. Solas takes a step closer to her. It is enough to make her eyes flash with some unreadable emotion.

“Have you spoken to the healers in the hold? Perhaps they can help you.”

Her gaze searches his. For a second, he thinks he sees longing there. The look is warm, and tender, drawing him in. He does not let it break his resolve.

“I have not,” she concedes. “They are busy with more critical injuries. It would not have felt right employing them on something so…nonessential.”

It is Lavellan’s turn to step toward him. They are close now, enough that he could brush the hair behind her ear without effort. He smiles. He knows the look is clever, but he does not care. It is worthy of the game she wishes to play.

“I understand,” he says. “If I can help, I will. Though I’m unsure how much I can do.”

She lets his words linger between them a moment. Finally he lets out a quiet breath, stepping around her to go to his desk. He feels her eyes on him as he goes.

“She also told me that she is afraid.”

Solas stiffens, then curses himself. He can feel her studying him. If he does not react, she will think he is hiding something. If he does, he must be very careful.

He turns back to her.

“That is understandable,” he says. “We fought a hard battle. Perhaps she will learn from this, as you had hoped.”

That smile again, secretive, warning him to be cautious. She is aware he has not responded directly to her comment. But it will do for now. She lowers her head, gazing up at him. Her green eyes are warm and inviting. He gives her a trained, inquisitive expression.

“Perhaps,” she concedes. “Though, she seems more fearful that we will blame her for the incident. I assured her we do nothing of the sort.”

He cannot tell whether that is all Vivienne had said. Or if she had truly said that at all. Lavellan gives him a somewhat knowing expression. He curses himself silently.

“I shall leave you to your work now,” she says softly. “I hope I have not intruded.”

He smiles softly.

“It is always a pleasure, Inquisitor.”

She leaves him then. Solas watches her as she goes, unwilling to tear his gaze away. It is no wonder to him why they call her the Dread Inquisitor.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric's secret manuscript (aka much needed fluff)

The night is alight with the flicker of flames. The stars are crisp and clear above the battlements, the side of the barn a flurry of dancing shadows as refugees come to join the Dalish clan. Some are curious, others seem attracted by the music a few of the elves are playing near the edge of the bonfire. Farther off, the dwarf can see the Keeper, standing at the mouth of the stable. Blackwall is beside her. Every so often, they exchange a few words, though neither turns to look at the other.

The Herald has been swallowed by a group of younger clan elves. She does not look displeased by the matter, though she is not exactly thrilled. They seem to be asking more questions than she can answer in rapid succession. After a moment an older Dalish elf reaches out from the dancing circle and snags her hand, sweeping her away from the group. He is grinning as he does so. The dwarf sees the Herald laugh as he dances her around the fire to the tune of the fiddle. 

“So this is clan Lavellan.” 

The dwarf turns to see a tall, dark haired woman standing beside him. He's not sure when she appeared. She gives a smile that tells him she is aware of that fact.

”Did I startle you?”   
  
It takes him a moment to remember her name. 

“Yeah,” the dwarf replies. “But lately, that’s nothing new.”

Morrigan looks back to the fire, watching the elves laugh and mingle with the refugees who are brave enough to get close.   
  
“They are beautiful, are they not?” she says, her dark features warm in the light of the flame. “The elves posses a magic they may never truly understand.”

She pauses briefly, then raises her brow. 

“It seems we are not the only ones who think so.” 

The dwarf follows Morrigan’s gaze. He looks beyond the enchanting circle of elves to the far wall of the stronghold. He spots the tall horns of the Iron Dragon first, turned toward Sera as they smile and chat, each holding a large mug of ale. Beside them stands the Inquisitor’s guard.   
  
The dwarf chuckles when he sees him, standing with his shoulders squared, his brow furrowed as he watches the Herald dance around the fire with a wolf-like curiosity. 

“Maybe thinking is his problem,” the dwarf mutters. 

He hears Morrigan hum in soft laughter. They watch the trio for a short time, the Iron Dragon throwing a soft punch at the guard’s arm to draw him back to the conversation. The guard’s eyes stray for a minute or so before falling back to the fire. His gazing is more inconspicuous this time. 

After a few seconds Sera seems to notice, and she reaches over to bump the Dragon’s shoulder. The dwarf sees the two exchange a glance. Sera says something and the guard’s frown deepens. He turns his head to look at her. In the same moment, the Herald rounds the dancing circle with the other elf. Before the dwarf can gather what they’re doing, Sera and the Dragon have taken the guard by the shoulders and pushed him into the crowd. 

The Herald is quick and light on her feet. She releases the Dalish elf without breaking stride, grabbing the guard and pulling him into the circle. The Iron Dragon is keeled forward as he slaps his knee, wiping at his eye with one massive hand. Sera throws her head back in an open mouth laugh. 

He hears Morrigan chuckle. 

“Well, would you look at that,” she says quietly, “The guard can dance.” 

The dwarf watches the pair as they go. The Herald seems fit to draw him forward as the lead. His hand rests low on her back, a hint of a smile on his face that he does not try to hide. Perhaps it is their victory at the Winter Palace the night before. Or maybe it is the way the Herald dances circles around him while all he can do is stand there and watch, his hand skating across her waist as he catches her to spin her around. But if the dwarf had known the guard before all of this, he might have said the elf seemed more like himself than he had in ages. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its finals week so posting will be slow :(  
> But next week will be back to normal!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas remembers the night after the Winter Palace

She is standing at the edge of the balcony when he enters her quarters. The moon is full, turning the snow on the mountains into a chorus of stars. Cold night air sweeps in through the open door. She has let hair down from the elaborate braid Josephine had weaved before the ball. He watches her from the top of stairs, admiring the way her hair ballets in the breeze, her neck barely visible atop the fur mantle he’d gifted her just before the Winter Palace. 

She does not turn as he approaches her. His hand rests on the small of her back in a wordless greeting. She sighs, her breath forming a wisp in the air as she rests her head on his shoulder.

“You have done well tonight,” he says gently. “My heart should not be so heavy.”

He reaches up to brush his thumb along her cheek. He feels her mouth is formed into a straight line.

“I implicated a man for a crime I know he did not commit, and I solidified a power that will not last.” Lavellan turns her face against his neck. Her nose is cold, but her breath is warm and smells of wine. “I have done nothing tonight but make enemies in the temporary guise of friends.”

Solas tightens his arm around her. “You have established order, _vhenan_. You made many allies as well as friends tonight. It is a cause for celebration.”

Lavellan pulls away, looking up at him. Her eyes are round and full as the moon. “Allies that will quickly vanish, Solas. I am like a bear walking on its hind legs on the court stage. Once I have done my duty, after Corypheus is dead, I will no longer be interesting. I will be a Dalish with power. An enemy, not an ally. I will be lucky to live.”

Her gaze is weary, yet unafraid. Acceptance is often the heaviest burden to bear. He hurts for her then. It is a pain he knows all too well. The pain of being cursed by those you wish to save. She is right, of course. Though he did not expect her to realize it so quickly. He thought he would have time to tell her what he wished to first. So she would understand what he was promising when he swore his protection.

“They already call me the Dread Inquisitor,” she says quietly. “Once the Inquisition is gone, what will they call me? The Dread Witch? Enemy of the Chantry, and Andraste herself.”

Solas lowers his head, holding her gaze. “Would that be so bad?” he asks.

He expects her to agree. Instead, she laughs. The sound is soft and lyrical, dancing away from them in a white wisp of air. He leans back against the railing as he studies her. 

“No. I suppose not. At least then they will be afraid of me.” She smiles then, keeping her gaze on the glittering horizon. “Perhaps the Dread Wolf and I can parlay for battle once the forces arrive.”

He exhales lightly, his eyes softening as he searches her face. After a moment he looks away. 

“Most Dalish would not dare mention the Dread Wolf’s name. Let alone invoke him for protection.”

Though it has not always been so. A fact he intends to divulge in the right moment.

“Perhaps it has not always been so, my heart. Judging on how quickly Tevinter took to calling me _Dread_ Inquisitor, perhaps there was a time when the Dread Wolf meant something else entirely. History is, after all, written by the conquerors. Where would you be if you believed every story about Dalish elves?” 

Her eyes gain a wicked sort of edge, and he chuckles.

“Besides” she says, “Fear of wolves is foolish to my clan. We remember the time our people use to hunt alongside the animal. They are not a symbol of danger.”

Solas finds it humorous, being lectured about himself this way. Even more so that she is so keenly right. He is intrigued by her belief. As always, it draws him in.

“Wolves are a savage animal. What more could they be?” he asks.

He raises an eyebrow as Lavellan steps away from the rail of the balcony. She unfolds one arm and she reaches for him, resting her hand over his heart. He cannot help but notice the way she is smiling. It is a quiet look, barely detectable, something which lures him closer.

“A wolf,” she says, “is only cunning toward its prey. It is not a savage beast. It is shrewd as it hunts, circling its quarry for the advantage.”

The word _wolf_ is foreign on her tongue, something ancient, full of secrets. Her hand rides upward, resting softly over his throat, and he feels himself swallow. She rises on her toes as she leans in.

“It is precise and calculated, and wastes no time for doubt. A wolf is not a killer. It is a skilled hunter. Above all, it is wise.”

Her breath is on his neck. He feels her lips skate beneath his jaw, brushing gently against his throat. “I do not dread wolves,” she says softly.

He feels his heart burn within his chest. Reason is lost to him as he takes her face and draws it to his. Her lips are soft and warm, and his head swirls with the vague taste of wine. He reaches beneath her fur mantle, his hands sliding along her waist as his lips part. She sighs, and he stands away from the railing, his tongue sweeping softly against hers. She feels so small then. He breaks away, leaning down to nuzzle under her chin, bringing a kiss to her neck.

“Then I shall swear to you now," his voice is dark and low when he speaks. “An enemy of the Dread Witch will most certainly be an enemy of mine.”

He brings his forehead to hers, stroking her cheek with his thumb. He can swear that much to her, at least. More words linger just behind his thoughts. He wishes to say them, but it is not right. Not now. There are other things she should know first. He will wait until the proper moment.

She leans up and kisses him softly, drawing him back to her.

“It is cold,” she whispers. “Come to bed with me.”

Solas looks down at her, her marked hand clutching the edge of the fur mantle. Her nose and cheeks are pink from the chilly air. He smiles gently and brings a kiss to the scar over her left brow. Without a word she draws him forward by the hand into the warmth of the room.

He watches himself go as the memory begins to fade. It is his memory, not hers, and she is not here. He wants to tell himself that is for the best. But even so, he cannot stop himself from seeking her out. Though he looks for her in the Fade, she is nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, wonder where she is...


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan has a strange dream  
> (Ties into chapters 5 & 13, for anyone missing references)

The air is cold and swirling with the hum of magic. Starlight glitters above the dense veil of trees. Pine needles and damp earth press against her bare knees as she stays, kneeling on the ground, her eyes searching blindly through the forest. The night is dark, and the wind is thin. The forest is old here. She can sense it, deep beneath the ground, calling to her, as if it knows her by name.

Lavellan’s ears perk at the sound of approaching footsteps. She lifts her head, and sees a dark outline standing among the trees. Her breath leaves her in a shutter. The scent of embrium and lilies carry on the wind. The dark figure stands, unmoving, as if only to observe her. She rises up on her knees. After a moment, she calls out. 

“Hello?”

The air fogs with her breath. Somewhere behind her, a twig snaps. Suddenly the figure is coming towards her. Running. Before she can stand, she hears another set of footsteps swiftly approaching. The figure in front of her is close, but not close enough to grab her before a pair of hands seize her shoulders, pulling her away.

The forest floor passes under her as she is dragged backwards. She hears someone give a breathless curse. The figure is running after her, but soon vanishes into the darkness.

In an instant the forest is awash in campfire light. She is dragged several more feet before she is dropped on her back in the mud. Lavellan coughs, rolling onto her side. 

“You have to run, sister.” 

Pain strikes through her like a flaming arrow.

“ _No_.”

Lavellan squeezes her eyes closed. The gesture is quick, but not fast enough, too slow to block out the image of her brother's face, marred by the edge of a broadsword, his left ear clipped and wrapped in a filthy bandage.

“Run, Seid. I will distract them.” 

“ _No no no no_.” Lavellan covers her ears, whispering the word as she curls inward. 

The memory is still sharp, as if she has never left. As if this was not a dream in the Fade, but some strange, paralleled moment in time, where she is both here and not, like a snare, reaching for the worst parts of her mind and trapping her inside. She can hear her brother pleading with her to go. She can smell the fire of the Templar camp, and the rusted sting of old iron, still clamped around her wrists. Men are shouting, coming closer. They had spent days with the group, chained to the back of their convoy cart, prodded with swords and spears. The nights has been the worst. Her brother had taken to taunting the group of Templars so they would not touch her. What they did to him instead was much worse. 

The group of men is on them now. Lavellan presses her hands tight against her ears, though it makes no difference. She can hear the swift sound of a sword being drawn. Her brother shouts a curse, and warm blood spatters her face. Her eyes open without consent. She sees him fall to his knees.

“Nathaniel!”

She reaches for him. It is illogical, she knows it is too late, but no part of her seems to care. No matter what she will always try. 

Her brother’s hand ignites with a crackle of energy. Before she can stop him, the world flashes, and light ignites in a sudden flare. Voices cry out as red fire erupts from the earth, engulfing the camp. She watches her brother vanish as he is swallowed by the boiling flames. 

She does not realize she is screaming until a hand is on her shoulder, helping her to her feet. Tears blur her vision and the air catches in her throat. The forest is silent as she is led swiftly away into the trees. She can hear the ragged sound of her own breathing, but not much else. Her hand grips at the rough side of someone’s armor as they guide her forward. After several minutes they stop, and she feels herself being let down against the trunk of a tree.

Lavellan sinks down onto the damp soil, drawing her knees up and resting her forehead against them. She stays like that for what might have been a full minute. Finally, someone speaks. 

“You are alright. It was a snare, nothing more.” 

The voice is male; dark and deeply familiar. She hears the man crouch down in front of her. A hand rests tenderly on her shoulder. 

“You are safe.”

Lavellan looks up. She sees the hand, adorn in several sharp, rune lit rings, pull away. The face in front of her is shadowed, half hidden by the dark fur of a hooded mantle. Even so, the lips, the rouge, sharp canine, the straight arrow of a nose, are impossible to misremember. Lavellan pulls away. He seems to hang his head a moment before casting his gaze to the side. She can see his eyes, then. They are tender and kind, but they are not dark. They are a bright, luminous blue.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

He stands, and Lavellan sits forward onto her knees. He is tall. Even more so than he already is outside of the Fade. Though she is no longer certain she is even in the Fade to begin with.

“ _Solas_ ,” she says quietly.

The forest around them is no longer silent. She can hear the air through the trees overhead, shadowed by the call of an owl somewhere in the distance. He is still for a moment. She can feel his eyes on her, silently assessing.

“It seems I am at a disadvantage,” he says finally. “You know my name, but I am afraid I do not know yours.”

She is surprised to hear him say so, though he does not seem concerned. He smiles, a clever, incisive sort of expression, sticking the bladed end of his staff into the ground. The weapon is long, the top adorned with a set of sharp horns that tower him by a full head. By the looks of it, she would guess the weapon was made to bleed an enemy, not to cast spells.

“Though, coming from a _seid_ , I should not be surprised. Perhaps we have already met, and I have only yet to be informed.”

 _This is a dream_ , she tells herself. _This is a dream, and he is a spirit_. _This is not real._

Lavellan shakes her head slowly, trying to clear her thoughts.

“I have never been to this area of the Fade,” she says. “I…I do not understand. How did I get here?”

Solas gives her a calm, quick assessment.

“I am not sure what you mean. These are the ancient woods of your people. You are home, lethallan.”

Lavellan casts her gaze to the ground. She frowns. There is a moment of silence. She can hear him when he kneels down in front of her.

“Perhaps you were injured in your travels,” he says gently. “It would explain your confusion. Most _seid_ do not come so close to the edge of the forest. Slavers leave snares here to catch what few runaways are fortunate to make it this far.”

His voices darkens at the end, and she can hear in his voice that he is frowning.

“Snares?” she asks.

Something warm washes over her then. She realizes she can feel his magic, reaching for her, prodding for some injury to mend.

“Yes,” he says rather absently. “Magical wards that trap the victim’s mind. They have learned the screams of a painful memory are louder than the pain of a physical trap. It makes the slaves easier to find.”

The brush of his energy grows warmer. She feels heat flood her face, and all at once he pulls away.

“Odd,” she hears him murmur.

“If what you say is true," she says, "Then why are you out here alone?”

Again, he seems to pause, as if she has taken him off guard.

“A good question,” he concedes. “One which I will answer, in exchange for an answer of my own.”

Lavellan’s gaze narrows.

"What do you wish to know?" she asks cautiously.

He reaches up to brush the hood from his head. She can see his face fully then, and it surprises her how young he seems. He has hair, shaved on the sides, dark and soft on top, edged on either side by several fine braids. The dark circles, formed by countless sleepless nights, and the grim cast of self-loathing are gone. The wisdom in his gaze is kind and unburdened. She sees him frown.

“You know my name, and yet you are wary of me.”

His words are quiet, a question he does not expect an answer to. His gaze searches hers in way that is deeply familiar.

“Tell me your name,” he says. "You call me _Solas_ , but what do I call you?"

“You do not already know?"

He does not seem fazed by the question.

"Not yet, _lethallan_."

The way he speaks makes her face warm, so careful and tender. Lavellan feels her heart begin to ache.

"Call me Seid."

That smile again, gentle and slightly roguish. He offers his hand and she lets him pull her to her feet.

“Then I suppose you should simply call me _mage_ ,” he says.

His tone is light, with an air of humor. She can see in his eyes her answer will not satisfy him. She lets out a soft breath.

“I have been called me many things,” she says, pulling her hand from his. “But few of them matter here. Most call me Lavellan.”

He raises an eyebrow. She sees he is poised to ask another question, but she speaks before he can.

“It is my turn,” she says.

His blue eyes flash. He seems to reassess her, this time more keenly, and the gesture is admiring.

“Of course.” He nods courteously. “Though I fear I am telling you something you already know. In truth, it is not an honest trade.”

It is her turn to smile. The gesture is inquisitive, and a little canny.

“You would lie, and then tell me of it moments later?” she asks in amusement.

“I have no taste for lying, Lavellan. I speak the truth. The truth simply holds more meaning than one might assume. Not unlike your answer.”

“You're describing a trick," she says plainly. "Do not try to leverage more answers on a technicality. I answered. Now it is your turn.”

Solas chuckles. The sound is dark and low, and somewhat playful.

“I can see why Dirthamen favors you so,” his smile fades into a more curious expression. “To answer your question, that is why I am here. Or, one of many reasons, rather. Dirthamen does not wish to see your People fall to the wars of his kind. A sentiment we both share. He has asked me to guard you, and I have humbly complied.”

Lavellan searches his gaze as she thinks. She has seen statues of the Dread Wolf in the temple of Mythal. But she has never heard his name mentioned in relation to Dirthamen. She quickly shakes her head at the thought. There is no way to verify if any of this is even true. Or whether this was some strange trick of the Fade.

“It seems it is an honest trade after all," she says, gazing up at him. "You told me something I did not know."

Solas does not seem convinced.

"Just because you do not know it today, _seid_ , does not mean you do not know it."

Though she wants to, she cannot argue. Lavellan draws in a long breath.

"Fair enough," she concedes. "If that is not your only reason, then why else are you here?”

Solas raises his head in a somewhat arrogant manner. His features are dark and canny, and he does not speak. After a moment she lets out a rather pointed sigh.

“Very well. It is your turn.”

He straightens, looking down at her. The playfulness to his gaze is gone. His eyes gauge hers when he speaks.

“You say you have been called many things. And that others call you Lavellan. But you have managed to avoid my question. What do I call you?”

She does not evade his gaze, though she desperately wants to. Cold air sweeps through the trees. Lavellan crosses her arms to guard against the chill. His gaze is warm and inviting as he studies her. Perhaps it does not matter what she tells him. There is a great chance that none of this is real.

“You have called me Herald,” she tells him. “Inquisitor, spirit of Order, and when we were alone,” her eyes leave his to look out at the trees, “You called me your heart.”

Lavellan senses him stiffen. When she looks back at him, his brows are pulled together, his features an unreadable mask. He opens his mouth, but no words come. The air seems to shift. She feels something press against the side of her head. It is vague at first, but quickly grows into a sharp pain. Lavellan winces. Her first instinct is to clench her left hand and draw the pain back. Looking down, she sees no glow of light to signify the mark. A sound appears behind her.

She turns sharply. Solas rests a hand on her shoulder, as if he might pull her back.

“What is it?” he asks.

“That sound.”

It is loud, whispering, like the voice of a shard buried far back in the trees. It is accompanied by an almost deafening hum. Lavellan presses a hand to the side of her head, bracing against the tree as the world leans sideways.

“Makers, what is that sound?” she gasps.

Black dots begin to flood her vision. At some point she is vaguely aware of fresh soil pressing against her bare knees. She looks up, and sees Solas kneeling down to her. His eyes are bright like veilfire. He is speaking but she cannot hear him. After a moment, the vision of his face fades altogether, and she finds herself sitting up in her bed.

“Lady Inquisitor?”

A voice calls to her from the top of the stairs. Lavellan does not turn, staring down at the sheets wrapped around her bare legs, and the mud still damp and smeared on her knees. She pulls the blankets up as footsteps approach.

“Lady Inquisitor, are you alright?”

She looks up to see the young agent standing at the foot of her bed. Lavellan gazes at her a moment. Finally, her thoughts seem to clear, and she shakes her head.

“You should not be in here,” she tells the girl. “It will raise suspension with Solas.”

The elf looks down at her feet.

“I know,” she says.

Lavellan waits, but the girl does not continue.

“If you know this, then why are you here?”

The girl's eyes do not leave the floor. Understanding takes over her then.

“He has sent you to me,” Lavellan says. It is not a question.

The agent looks up at her. “He requested I stay with you as your personal aid.”

Lavellan scoffs, looking up at the Orlesian canopy above her bed. She wonders if Solas had ever intended for her to be his spy. Or if he had anticipated she would get caught.

“He is throwing me a bone,” she mutters.

“My Lady?”

“Even if he briefs you, which I doubt he will, it will be nothing but misinformation.” Lavellan swings her legs off the bed and takes to pacing the floor. “He knew that I would catch you spying, and that I would use you to get to him. Now he thinks he can make you a dead end. That I'll take the bait, and believe whatever you tell me. He would sacrifice monitoring Vivienne to watch me. But why? If I wished to out him, I would have done so already, before he had time to plan ahead.”

She is rubbing her forehead with her fingertips, watching the stone tiles pass under her feet. All at once, the agent turns to face her.

“I am not a _bone_ , Inquisitor.” The agent speakers her title like a curse, her face red as she scowls. “I am an agent of Fen’Harel. I have sworn an oath to follow his orders, no matter how dangerous, no matter how small.”

Lavellan lets out a short breath. She cannot help but admire the girl’s sense of honor, annoying as it may be. But the girl must not know that.

“Very well, _agent of Fen’Harel_ ,” Lavellan says. “If you wish to stay and comply with your Lord's orders, then you will need to give me something more than misinformation.”

She lets the request hang in the air a moment, watching the girl. Finally, the agent reaches into her pocket. Lavellan’s eyes flash as she pulls out a green crystal.

“He has asked me to give this to you. I am to tell you it is a gift from Dagna,” the agent says, holding out the jewel.

“And is it?”

The agent lifts her head.

“No.”

The Inquisitor stares down at the emerald jewel. She has watched Dagna work with them enough to know they are not a tool for eavesdropping. To use it, she has to be consciously willing to do so. It is for intentional conversation, not for spying. Something washes over her then. She turns away, before the girl can see her face. The faint ghost of tears well in her eyes.

“Inquisitor?” 

Lavellan is silent for a moment. She knew it would come. But she had not expected it to come so soon.

“He intends to leave,” she says quietly.

Her words are left in the air, and the agent says nothing in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought it was time for some OG Dread Wolf. I promise this is going somewhere.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas seeks a moment alone, but gets interrupted.

Solas shuts the door to the private library, leaning his forehead against the stiff, dusty oak. The sound of his breathing fills the silence. The inviting scent of old leatherback tomes and stale paper linger in the still air. He reminds himself, for what could be the third time today, that there is no option but forward.

Several seconds pass, and Solas stands away from the door. He runs a hand over his head as he turns toward the dimly lit room. Cobwebs float off the corners of the shelves like small wisps, a testament to how often this place is used. He wonders how many residence of Skyhold even know it exists. His eyes linger on the large book which sits propped on the desk. He has read it once or twice, though it was nothing he did not already know. Solas leans back against one of the shelves. A long sigh escapes him.

The silence here is soothing, almost eerie. It is why he has come. He tells himself it is only to gather his thoughts. In truth, he is certain that if he sees her again today, he will lose his resolve. She knows more than he has intended, a fact he can no longer deny. She has done work to infiltrate his agents. How much she has succeeded is still unknown. But he has no doubt she will be successful in much of her endeavor. He is beginning to worry he may be outmatched. Though it should worry him, Solas cannot shake the sick sense of relief he feels at the thought.

_She must not._

As much as he would revel in her prowess for doing so, he cannot allow the Inquisitor to win. The veil is already weak. It is only a matter of time before the veil falls on its own. The destruction that would bring would be insurmountable. It must be torn down in a controlled manner, before it destroys itself, and before any chance of saving his people has vanished. Before Order is completely lost.

“I did not find her.”

Dust plumes as the veil seems to shutter, and Cole appears in front of him. 

“I looked for her in the Fade, but she was not there. She is always there.”

The boy’s features are sharpened with worry. He has removed his hat, leaving his blonde hair to stick up in odd places.

“Did you find her?” Cole asks.

“No,” he says, perhaps a little too curtly.

“I saw her play fighting with Cassandra behind the tavern. She is alright. But I could not tell what she was thinking." Cole cocks his head to one side. "Why do they do that?”

“They are sparring,” Solas tells him. “It is practice, for those who are skilled with a blade.”

“But the Inquisitor uses magic. Why would she need a blade?”

Solas pushes away from the bookshelf. He gives Cole a tired, but genuine smile. He is happy to see the spirit thriving so well. Being curious and playful. It reminds him of how things used to be. How they should be, and what he will fight to bring back.

“The Inquisitor is a knight-enchanter, Cole. It requires the skill of both.”

She is certainly skilled, at that. He remembers the first time he saw her draw her sword in battle. The shock of energy as she honed her focus, her hand spinning the hilt as she released the blade. He had felt her magic like a bolt of lightning. For a moment it felt as though the veil had been lifted, and the world was a thousand years younger than it was. She would have been a sight to see during the days of Arlathan. He would have loved her then, too. Something he had always wished to tell her.

“You should tell her.”

Cole’s voice calls him back. He looks down at the boy, and sees a grin spread across his face. His blue eyes are wide with some realization.

“Tell her now,” he says.

Before Solas can speak, the veil curls inward, and Cole vanishes in a wisp of black smoke. Seconds later he hears the door to the library open. She does not see him at first. She slips in, her hand still gripping the door handle as she silently guides the door closed. Her hand rests against the frame and she leans forward. For a moment she stays like that. He hears her breath, short and light, breaking apart as she sniffs. He hears a sob escape her. His heart clenches.

“Lavellan.”

The Inquisitor tenses, turning to face him. Her face is red, her neck and chest gleaming with fresh sweat. He can smell the faint scent of grass still lingering on her skin. Her hilt sits hitched at her left hip.

“Solas,” she says in surprise. “I did not know you were…I’m sorry. Forgive me for intruding.” 

“Please.” His voice stops her before she can turn. “You can never intrude. Are you alright?”

He gives her a quick glance, trying not to linger on the way her skin glitters in the light.

“I was sparring with Cassandra near the battlement. I was just hoping for a moment of quiet.”

Solas folds his hands behind him. “Then perhaps I should be asking if Cassandra is alright.”

The joke is halfhearted, yet she smiles. It does not match the look in her eyes. There is a moment of silence, which he fills by silently cursing himself in his head. He knows he should leave. But she is standing in front of the door. Getting closer to her will not be helpful. He wonders if she knows that.

“Truthfully, I am glad I caught you,” Lavellan says. “You’ve been hard to find the last few days.” 

He straightens, training his expression.

“Is there something I can do for you?”

Fresh tears haunt the corners of her eyes and alarm flashes through him. She seems intent on ignoring them, however.

“I wanted to make sure you were prepared for our final battle. Cullen will be moving our troops towards Corypheus in two days. Should you require anything, please, let me know. I will do what I can to make sure you receive it.”

Her tone is light and clinical. It is an odd match to the way she looks at him, her gaze holding to his, as if it might be for the last time. He swallows the dryness in his throat.

“I will,” he says. “Thank you.”

She nods vaguely. Several seconds pass before Lavellan takes a step away from the door.

“I also wished to ask you something.”

He is taking a step towards her before he can stop himself.

“Of course,” he says.

He watches her reach into her back pocket. When she withdraws her hand, she extends it, and he sees the emerald crystal he had given to his agent this morning. Solas is careful not to react.

“Dagna has gifted me a communication amulet. But she did not gift me the knowledge of how to use it. She was running off with Sera when I went to the Undercroft to ask. I was hoping you might know.”

Her hand stays suspended, beckoning him to reach for her. He must be careful. Perhaps she is testing him to see what he knows. A nonissue, as his knowledge of the crystal comes from Dagna. Sera would be a useful alibi to that. Perhaps she simply wants to see how he will react, to test whether it had truly come from Daga.

Solas reaches forward. He means to take the jewel, but his hand comes to rest beneath hers _._

“Very well,” he says.

Lavellan steps closer.

“Unfortunately, my knowledge is limited. Sera interrupted us before Dagna could show me the mechanics of the jewel, but she did show me how to use it.”

The Inquisitor frowns. The expression would seem nearly genuine, if not for the canniness to her gaze.

“When did you see Dagna about communication amulets?” she asks.

Solas feels his stomach flutter, as if he is standing at the edge of a drop off, looking down. It is the thrill of a good game. She thinks she is close. And she is. He gives her a polite smile.

“I had heard she was curious about the Fade. The idea that a dwarf could even conceive of such a non-material idea is fascinating. I offered to teach her what I knew, and in exchange, she offered her knowledge of the crystals.”

A small twinge pulls at his heart. He realizes he misses telling her things. Even small things, like a conversation with Dagna. He holds her fingers steady with one hand and closes his other over the jewel.

“It is like a spell,” he tells her. “You must focus your intent and cast your will. After that, it should respond appropriately.”

“Will the communication always be opened? Or can it be turned off and on?” she asks.

“That was my initial thought as well.” His voice is more admiring than he intends. He quickly trains himself. “The jewel responds to your will. If you do not wish to use it, the line will not be open to communicate. If you were to misplace it, anyone who finds it will be unable to use it.”

He feels her looking at him.

“And how do you know who is listening on the other end? Could the communication not be intercepted, or drawn to more than one crystal?”

Solas frowns.

“That is a good question, lethallan. To the extent that you are asking, I cannot say for certain. However, Dagna assured me that the communication is secure, and that the line only goes to the amulet it has been trained to go to.”

“Then my jewel must be trained to a particular amulet before it can communicate with it?”

“That is correct.”

He realizes his mistake a second too late. Lavellan’s hand stays between his, and he feels her fingers give the jewel a light squeeze. The amulet beneath his shirt grows warm. The sound it emits is quiet, like the low wave at the end of a tolling bell. Lavellan’s eyes hold to his. He does not look away.

She reaches toward him. Her fingers brush his neck, running along the collar of his shirt, and he nearly shutters at her touch. One of her fingers catches the thin chain of the amulet, and she tugs. His heart is pounding as she pulls it free. It hums, her green eyes studying it for a quiet moment as she turns it in her fingers. Finally he feels her release her crystal. The humming stops. Her gaze returns to his.

He cannot seem to think. He knows what this means, what she so clearly knows, but in that moment, all he can think is how absolutely impossible it will be to outrun her. To leave behind the thought of her. To never see her face again. To never be close, to touch her, and hear her voice. No longer being guided by his heart, but forever by his worst mistakes. _Lost_.

Lavellan’s hand comes to rest on the side of his neck, and it is all he can do not to fall apart.

“I do not care,” she says quietly. “I do not care what they call you. Do not leave.”

Fresh tears form in her eyes. _They will be more_ , he tells himself. _The tears will be more once she sees what you become_. 

“It would be kinder, to do it now,” he tells her.

“Kinder to who?” she asks.

The words sting. She does not think he cares, and he does not fault her for it. He only wishes it could be different. He takes her hand, squeezing, reaching up to brush the hair over her ear. His thumb wipes at a stray tear on her cheek.

“To my heart,” he says softly. “I will not put you into the path of my enemies. They are great, and many, _vhenan_. I will not risk you.”

Lavellan frowns, her eyes glittering as they narrow. The look is sharp and dangerously capable.

“You would swear to protect me, but not accept the same in return?”

His ears lower, and he feels sadness twine itself around his heart.

“It would not be a fair exchange,” he says.

“Once I forfeit my title, I will have enemies from every shore, in every city, reaching for their chance to destroy me. My clan will never no peace. Nor will I. How does that not compare to you?”

Solas feels his resolve as it caves. Fear seizes him, and his eyes flash. He takes her face in both of his hands. This is why. This is why she must not know. She will give too much.

“It is not men that I fear,” he pleads. “You cannot protect me, Seid. Not from what will crawl its way free from the Black City. And you cannot protect yourself. I will not fall knowing I have delivered this worlds last hope into the hands of her own corrupt gods. They will kill you, if only to make me watch.”

Her eyes search his, wide and full of tears. Her lips part but she does not speak. The sound of her breath is shallow and faint. He cannot bear the pain he sees in her face.

“You mean to die,” she whispers.

Solas releases her, turning away. What has he done?

“I walk the Din’anshiral,” he says, lowering his head. “A path the knows only death.”

“You walk the Din’anshiral to fight the gods.” Her hand takes his arm, and she turns him around. “But to do that, to set them free, you must destroy the veil.”

Such a fool he was to think he could keep this from her. He does not look at her. He cannot. She will tell him he is a monster. A demon, made only to destroy, to lie, and trick, and –

“My heart.”

Lavellan’s voice reaches to him. Solas feels her hand rest beneath his chin, lifting his gaze to hers. When she speaks, her voice is gentle.

“You are not lost,” she says. “And you are not alone.”

Her thumb carries softly along his jaw. In that moment, he cannot imagine loving anyone more than he loves her.

“What will happen? Once the veil is gone?” she asks. “Will it be like you said it was before?”

There is hope in her voice, pulling at him, begging to be realized. Solas gives her a sad, quiet smile.

“The veil is already falling. It is only a matter of when.” He takes her hand and holds it in both of his. “Once it is gone, our people will be free. Just as I said it was before.”

The hint of hope in her gaze fades, and her face becomes pained.

“And you…”

His eyes search hers. It takes him a moment to find the right words. When he speaks, his voice is absolute.

“And I will have done my duty.”

She inhales slowly. More tears spill out onto her cheeks, and she looks away. “Your duty to fight the gods,” she says quietly.

“My duty to free the People. _Our_ People,” he says, drawing her gaze back to his. “If I must fight the gods to do so, then I will. Even if I cannot win.”

Lavellan takes in a sharp breath. A sob. Like an instinct he pulls her to him. She wraps her arms around him tightly, burying her face against his chest. He feels the tears as they soak through his shirt.

“And what of the others? Dorian, Josephine, Cullen; those that are not our People?”

Lavellan’s voice is raw and hoarse. Her hands clutch at the back of his shirt as she holds him to her.

“They will have you,” he says softly. “They will have Order.”

The nature of mankind is to resist what is different. They will be his enemies, even if he does not wish for it to be so. She will realize that soon enough. But right now, he cannot bear to tell her.

She pulls away, resting her forehead against his heart.

“I will not let you fall,” she says.

He lets out a soft breath, stroking her hair.

“I know.”

It seems easy, then, to imagine himself staying. At least for a while. Until it is time to truly say goodbye. Now that she knows, there seems no risk in doing so. Maybe she will let him. The possibility begins to build in his mind, warm, like the dawn over the mountains, greeting him from the open door of her bedroom balcony. Perhaps he can stay. Once they have fought Corypheus, and she has given him the orb, perhaps he will be powerful enough to protect her.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric's POV after the battle

The air around them is still. Grey ash settles quietly onto the marred stone like dying snow. Varric can hear the crackle of fading flames somewhere near the edge of the platform. Cassandra is kneeling on one of the steps, clutching at her side with her free hand, her left still holding fast to her sword. Behind her, Varric sees the Herald. Her back is to him, golden light burning around her like perfect grace as she eclipses the sun. He sees Solas kneel down in front of her. Neither of them speak.

He approaches Cassandra on the step and offers his hand. He winces as she takes it, pulling her to her feet. The Seeker's hand stays braced on his shoulder a moment in a wordless gesture. He sees the pride that is burning in her eyes. They have done it. They have destroyed the evil by the blessing of Andraste. Corypheus is dead.

He wonders what Hawke would say if she were here.

_What do you mean you didn’t get a chance to snatch his loot?_

Cassandra turns, calling to the Herald, but the elf does not turn. Her left hand is clutched at her side, green light splintering out between her closed fingers.

Varric takes a step closer. “Hey, Herald.”

Solas looks up at her, rising slowly to his feet. Varric notices he's holding whats left of the broken orb. When he sees his face, for the first time in his life, Varric realizes how truly lucky he is. He is lucky to not know what it is that rests so easily in Solas' gaze. It is a look he can put no name to. Something heavy, and old, and much deeper than sorrow. When he sees it, the only word that Varric can think, is _alone_.

The elf’s dark eyes linger on the Herald’s face. Though he is not certain, Varric thinks for an instant he sees them glitter with the passing visit of tears.

Solas says something to her that he cannot hear. He sees the word _real_ leave his lips, and the Herald takes a half step back. The air feels cold and thin.

“Inquisitor!”

Cullen’s voice echoes over the edge of the platform. Varric turns, and sees a circle of Inquisition soldiers approaching the stairs. He looks back at the Herald. Solas turns away from her, as if to start toward the group. She passes him as she descends the steps.

Cassandra goes swiftly to the Herald’s side. Varric lingers on the stairs, turning to look at the elf still standing at the top of the platform. Their eyes meet, and Solas gives him that damned look. The one that says _goodbye_ and _I’m sorry_ all at once. Hawke had given Carver the same one, holding the knife to his heart in the deep roads.

“Damnit, Chuckles,” Varric says quietly.

Solas looks to the Herald, and takes a step back. Varric turns away before he can see him leave. He doesn't want to watch him go.

“Lavellan!”

Cullen jogs the distance between them as he sheaths his sword. He does not wait to take her into his arms. He is wearing a grin as he pulls her in, spinning her once before setting her back on her feet. His arms extend, holding her back, as if to look her over.

“We have done it,” he says breathlessly. “ _You_ have done it. It is a damned miracle. You are a hero.”

Varric sees her smile. The expression doesn't match the look in her eyes. He wonders if she knows.

“We shall celebrate,” he hears her say.

“You get the mugs, I’ll get the ale.” Bull passes Cullen, giving the Herald a solid knock to her left shoulder. “Drinks are on me,” he says.

“Drinks are alway _s_ on you, dear. No one but you and the Herald drink that nug poison. Which leaves the rest of us to foot the bill ourselves. I’m beginning to think its less of an offer, and more of a scheme.”

Dorian’s voice appears from somewhere behind the Iron Bull, though his massive shoulders make the mage impossible to spot.

“It’s a _formality_ ,” the Bulls replies with a grin.

Varric glances at the Herald. Cullen’s hand comes to rest on her waist. She turns her head, glancing back at the empty stairs. Her smile dissipates. Varric slides the crossbow into its sheath, nudging the Seeker with his elbow. She looks down at him. A second goes by, and she follows his gaze towards the Herald. He watches Cassandra search the group for the missing elf.

“Damn him,” she finally mutters.

Varric sighs.

“We should head back to Skyhold,” he tells the group. “I think Cassandra could use a few stitches.”

Cassandra quickly clutches her side as the group turns to look at them. She braces her hand on his shoulder as she feigns a groan.

“Right. Of course,” Cullen says.

The Seeker keeps her hand on his shoulder as they start towards the edge of the bridge. He sees the Herald glance back at him, her eyes glittering with silent tears. He gives her a quick wink. A small smile graces her features. He feels his heart grow warm at the sight.

“He is a fool,” Cassandra says quietly.

Though he wants to, Varric does not disagree. He hopes in time Solas might realize what it is he has left behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, next chapter will be NSFW. I'll provide a summary for it at the end, in case anyone wants to move past it. I have a non-NSFW surprise coming soon too (if you haven't noticed the new tags/fandom) ;)


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intimate moment between Solas and the Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW (Summary at the end for those who wish to skip)  
> Edit: apparently I'm addicted to editing this chapter

Sunlight glitters through the trees like brilliant stars above the canopy. The smell of moss and wildflowers swirl sweetly on the air as Solas nestles against her neck, breathing her in. The reward of her scent makes him heady.

Lavellan pushes him down into the soft grass. Her hair tickles the side of his face as she leans over him, and he cannot help but laugh. He feels her lips turn to a smile, trailing along his throat, her hand tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“We must be quiet, _vhenan_ ,” she says, her voice teasing. 

He chuckles, but the sound quickly collapses as she slides her hand beneath his armor. The feeling of her hand on his naked skin is enough to drive him mad. His breath leaves him in a rush. When her fingers reach the hem of his pants he can hardly stifle the sound that comes from him. 

His hand catches hers like a reflex. _We shouldn't_ , part of him wants to say. _Perhaps it is not right_. But another, much stronger part of him yearns for her. Yearns to feel her, _real_ and present, and show her that his love is just as real.

His fingers grip gently in her hair. She exhales softly into his mouth as her tongue sweeps his, and he lets her hand slip away, reaching farther down, until she has taken him in her hand. 

He groans quietly at his own mounting need. Her laugh rings softly against the side of his cheek. He smiles.

“You enjoy tormenting me,” he murmurs.

She does nothing to deny it.

Birds sing in the trees overhead as a quiet breeze wanders through the grass. He kisses the side of her neck, fingers tightening as he grips her thighs, still trapping him beneath her. She is strong, his heart. His teeth graze a little harder along her throat and her breath hitches. She presses against him firmly. He can feel her warmth beneath the layers of their clothes.

He wants to reach for the buckle on her chest plate, to pull away the layers of her armor and watch the warm light spill across her soft skin. To feel her naked against him in the cool grass. But the others are resting only a short distance through the trees. It is only a matter of time before they must be moving again. There was still much of the Emerald Graves left for them to discover.

Lavellan laughs as he rolls her over and onto her back. Pink wildflowers rest around her head in a crown of petals. 

“We must be quiet, my heart,” he teases softly, brushing the hair behind her ear.

Her green eyes gaze up at him, warm and wanting. In that moment he cannot imagine loving anything as much as he loves her. She reaches up to the buckle at his waist and his kiss deepens, his tongue sweeping hers urgently- begging her in silence. His need begins to grow.

She works the buckle of his pants free and her hand greets him fully in a surge of pleasure. His breath rushes out of him in a voiceless moan. 

Her lips turn to a smile against his. He laughs softly, biting gently on her lower lip, his fingers working to unlace the waist of her leggings and pull them down. The sounds of their soft breathing linger in the warm air.

His hand finds its way between her thighs, fingers pressing against her warm skin, touching until her breath quickens, ready to take him. The sound makes his body ache, begging to bury itself inside of her. She tugs down at the hem of his pants and her leg wraps around him, pulling him to her eagerly.

They exhale together as he slides into her with care. He will be careful with her, always. She breaks his kiss with a quiet moan, and he leans down, resting his forehead against her temple, whispering that he loves her. He tells her other things, too. Some she knows, some she cannot understand, his language still too buried in the corners of her mind, though they make her spirit reach for him.

Her breath rushes in his ear as he pushes into her, drawing his name from her lips, his fingers still moving between her thighs. His head swims at the way she arches into his touch. The feeling of her, taking him so eagerly, so deeply, is more than he can bear. He must exhale slowly then, reminding himself to stay in control. 

Soon her body begins to stiffen beneath him. He runs his lips along her jaw and up to her ear. His touch is careful, coaxing. She grips at the back of his shirt, pulling his mouth to hers in some desperate command for release.

He revels in the feeling; in her soft tugs against his arms and neck, the way she pleads silently, her body writhing on the precipice of blessed release. For a moment he keeps her there. It is a weakness of his to enjoy the way she comes undone. To feel such a powerful spirit give in to him so fully. He slows his movement, trapping her in her own growing pleasure, awaiting her request. He wants to _hear_ it.

Her teeth dig cruelly into his flesh. She seems to fight the word as it comes. Finally she gasps. 

“ _Please_.”

The sound of it is maddening. He relents, fingers lacing through hers as he pins her arms in the soft grass. She pushes against him, testing his strength, but he does not relent, driving into her full hilt, steady and hard. That is all it takes. 

Her legs squeeze around him and she lets out a soft cry. He buries his face against her neck, feeling her release, his own pleasure mounting until he cannot contain himself. His body pulses, heart pounding as he releases into her. There is no stifling the sound that comes from him then, fueled with lust, and love, and instinct. Her hands slip from his and come to stroke his back, his neck, holding him against her. Heat floods his face as she kisses the top of his ear. Her lips move down, trialing kisses until they meet his own. He has done nothing to deserve her.

They lie together in silence for a some time, redressing without hurry. He watches the sun rest softly against her cheek, burning behind her like holy light. Her green eyes are soft as they study his. When her hand comes to rest on his heart, he feels it grow, as if to reach for her. He brushes the hair away from her neck to kiss her skin.

“Don’t go,” he says softly.

His heart gives a sudden, painful twist when she does not respond. She is not here. He has made sure she cannot find him in the Fade. Yet in this moment, he is certain his heart will break if the memory were to vanish. He needs it now, just as he needs air.

It has been so long since he last looked her in the eye. Since he has felt her hand rest against his heart. _His heart_. The very thing that is impossible to live without.

Solas takes her hand, twining his fingers through hers.

“I am sorry.” His voice is rough, neglected and unused. “I must keep you safe.”

Her warm eyes hold to his, as if the memory of her could possibly understand. The touch of her skin is already fading. He means what he has told her, means it with every last shred of decency he might have left in him. But the promise of the Dread Wolf means nothing. Least of all to her. He has betrayed her trust too many times. The Din’anshiral is the only thing that welcomes him now.

Solas lays her left hand gently down into the soft grass, knowing how wrong it is that he should hold it. He could not save it. Just as he could not save many other things.

He hopes that she hates him for it, just as he deserves. He had left her, marred, and broken; had stolen the hand that held his, and wielded the blade of Arlathan. It would have killed her if he had not. But he should not have to her as much.

He needs her anger. It will be easier to leave him behind. To leave him to the future he deserves--the one she has feared for so long.

She had told him what she saw in the future, the day Alexius had pushed her through time; what had become of him, trapped in a cage of red lyrium. It had seemed such a far possibility in those days. The corruption of red lyrium had not been necessary with the power of the orb. But without it, he stood no chance against the spirits of the Black City.

The red idol was the only foci left to use. And he would not have her look him in the eye and see the red light of corruption. He must continue to stay one step ahead of her.

He looks away as the image of his heart begins to thin, fading from him like a ghost. He cannot bear to watch her go.

The air whispers silently through the trees. Seconds pass, and he feels the aching presence of loneliness surround hm. The scent of her skin still lingers on his. He turns his eyes to the canopy and watches the light as it begins to weaken. Soon there is nothing but darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're real, and it means everything could be real. It changes everything. But it can't." - Cole (to Lavellan/post-Crestwood banter)  
> For those that skipped: Solas remembers an intimate moment with the Inquisitor in a post Trespasser dream. Afterwards, he begins to gather his plan to find the red lyrium idol and gain enough power to fight the gods. He knows that doing so will likely corrupt him.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Trespasser Dread Inquisitor, just trying to keep her shit together.

“Get Up!”

Cold water rushes over her in a biting torrent. Lavellan sits up, gasping, her hand coming to wipe her face. An immediate pounding begins in her head.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” she says, “What is your problem?”

He is standing over her, holding the bucket by the rim, his white hair tucked behind his long ears. She blinks, trying to clear her vision. Her mouth is a graveyard of stale wine and liquor.

“It is noon. You are wasting daylight,” Fenris says curtly. “And you drank all my wine.”

Lavellan laughs. The sound is harsh and humorless, making her head throb. Fenris takes her by the front of her shirt and pulls her to her feet.

“They are waiting for you downstairs.”

His voice is a hard, unwelcome growl. She winces as she steadies herself on her feet. He shoves the bucket into her chest. Water sloshes at the bottom.

“Drink,” he says.

He holds it against her until she takes it. The water is cold and fresh on her dry lips. Fenris stands in front of her as she drinks. She shoves the bucket back into his hands when she is finished.

“Spare me the trouble,” she says, wiping her mouth, “Tell them I cannot help them.”

“Oh, you think I haven’t already?”

Despite his scowl, there is an air of humor to his voice, though it is scathing. She hears a knock on the door, and turns to see Hawke standing on the other side.

“Oh, good, your awake. I’ve got a Seeker in my living room accusing me of a hostage situation up here. Can we speed it up?”

“Figured she could use a bath first,” Fenris says, giving Lavellan an unappreciative once over.

Lavellan curses him under her breath, knocking his shoulder as she passes.

“I will change,” she concedes dryly. “Then I will meet you downstairs.”

Hawke has lent her more than a few pairs of clothes by now. Lavellan sifts through the pile in the corner of the room, peeling off her wet garments and leaving them beside the fire as she dresses. They are waiting for her outside the door when she is finished. Hawke lingers at her shoulder as she descends the stairs. She can see the others standing near the entryway. Cassandra looks to her, but Bull seems to avoid her gaze. She sees him wince.

“You do not look good.”

Cole’s voice is soft as he comes to her side. His arm links in hers, the way her brother’s used to when they were little.

“You should not be here,” she says softly, almost a whisper.

His shoulder presses against hers as he draws her close. His voice is quiet when he speaks.

“He will not let me find him.”

She glances up at him, and he gives her a sad attempt at a smile.

“I was beginning to think you were not here.”

Cassandra’s voice cuts between them. She sees the Seeker’s eyes dart sharply to Hawke.

“And I _told you_ ,” Hawke is quick to reply, “she’s been here the whole time. I’m not stupid enough to let the Inquisitor go running off alone with the Dread Wolf on her tail.”

“He is not on my tail,” Lavellan says, rubbing her face in a tired gesture. “And I am not the Inquisitor.”

Cole’s arm tightens around hers.

“You are still our leader, Lavellan.” Cassandra looks to her. Her voice is absolute. “You are the only one who knows him well enough to stop him.”

“It is not a matter of stopping him.”

She is grateful when Fenris cuts in. Lavellan has chosen well to come here. If what Solas told her is true, and the gods are nothing more than zealous mages, Fenris will be a useful alley when it comes to building an army against them. Though his feelings for Solas are mixed, the Dread Wolf’s history with the slave rebellion has been enough to sway Fenris from calling him a direct enemy.

“The veil is failing either way,” Fenris says. “Stopping him will do nothing. We should focus on preparing for the war that will come once the Black City has been opened.”

“And you would trust what Solas says readily, Inquisitor? Even after he has betrayed you?”

Lavellan’s heart gives a tired squeeze. By now the pain has dulled into a slow ache that never truly leaves.

“I trust what I know, Cassandra,” she says curtly.

There is a brief moment of pause. Lavellan makes a pained expression.

“Forgive me, that was unkind. I…I am sorry I left without giving word. I am sure you have many questions.”

She nearly shakes herself, thinking how much she must sound like Solas. But the pain of the memory overrides everything else.

“We forgive you,” Cole says perhaps too quickly.

He is still pressed against her, fingers tugging idly at her sleeve. She can tell he wants to touch her left hand. Or what has become of it. Hawke has helped her build a manacle from the pieces of her knight-enchanter’s hilt. It now acted as a seam between what remained of her arm, and the golden light that shaped her left hand. With the veil thinning it took little effort to maintain when the enchanter's blade was not in use.

“Leliana briefed us on your communications before we came,” Cassandra says, leaning against the enchanter’s table behind her. “We are aware of what Solas is trying to do. We are also aware that he seems to be leaving you alone, at least for the time being. And that he has a habit of sparing the Inquisitor’s agents. It is clear he is searching for something, but Leliana could not tell us what.”

She sees Hawke and Fenris exchange a glance.

“It is the idol,” Hawke says. Her face is trained in a serious manner.

“Oh?” Cassandra’s gaze shifts to hers. “What makes you so certain?”

Lavellan can see the switch in Hawke’s blue eyes. If she has learned anything about the mage in the time they have spent together, its that Hawke’s temper is fiercely short. A fact that Fenris seems to find endlessly entertaining.

“Because _I_ have been searching for the idol for the better part of five years, Seeker,” she tells her. “Sifting through leads, losing agents, spending coin, and now the wolf thinks he can just sweep in a steal it from under me. That idol must be destroyed. It brings nothing but evil.”

It is Lavellan’s turn to exchange a look with Fenris. He gives her just a hint of a smirk, shaking his head.

“We also heard that Cullen has been gathering soldiers from the coast. _A lot_ of soldiers.” Bulls voice cuts in, and Lavellan cannot help but think how much she has missed it. “Not just human, but Qunari, and any elves who agree that blowing up the world to make it better sounds like a bad plan.”

He looks to her then. His gaze is careful, as if she is something to treat lightly. It does not suit her. Cole leans his head against hers in a tender gesture.

“He is happy. Cautious, but kind. He has missed you, boss.”

Bull's expression hardens. Lavellan cracks a smile. She has never heard Cole use that word before. His lithe voice did not do it the service Bull’s does. When Bull sees her smile, he lightens a bit.

“I _really_ wish you wouldn’t do that,” he tells Cole.

“I don’t,” Cole says simply.

Lavellan laughs. Hawke and Fenris turn to look at her, as if she has just done something completely foreign. Cole’s fingers have finally made their way onto the back of her left hand. She feels the magic in her arm grow warm, and something in the air shifts. She hears a sound, almost like Cole’s voice, though it is more of a hum. The smell of ocean air fills her nose.

“Please don’t do that.”

Fenris’ voice cuts in; a low, begrudging rumble. Cole laughs. Lavellan loves his laugh. It is free and unencumbered, filled with such sweetness, tugging at what little remains of her heart.

“You will have to get used to it, Fenris. Elven glory is returning,” Hawke says, giving him a mean half smile.

“I have not, nor will I ever get used to it. I do not want to _smell_ spirits. And I don’t want to hear Elven magic.”

Hawke’s smile grows as Fenris frowns. Miraculously, she says nothing, settling for the action of taking his hand. Lavellan feels her heart ache.

“You should be prepared, Fenris,” she tells him. “Solas once told me that elves were born with the innate ability for magic. That ability may come back once the veil is weak enough.”

Bull lets out a hearty laugh.

“Man, Sera’s going to love that.”

Lavellan gazes back at him.

“I trust that you have heard from Sera, Bull? Last I knew she was somewhere near Orlais with Leliana, helping her recruit agents.”

Bull jerks his chin up in a backwards nod.

“Yeah, she’s doing fine. Leliana’s been keeping her busy. Wish I could see her more, but you know how that is.”

Lavellan frowns. All at once she feels foolish for not taking Bull with her when she left. He had given everything to become a part of the Inquisition. He let her lead him down the path of Tal-Vashoth without so much as a word. With Solas gone and Dorian in Tevinter, she had been his only friend still remaining in Thedas. And she had left him behind.

“How good are Tal-Vashoth at infiltrating the Ben-Hassrath?” she asks him suddenly.

She sees his eyes light up, the way they used to whenever they snuck up on dragon territory. She misses those days more than anything.

“I might know a few guys,” he says.

Cole releases her arm, turning to face her, eyes wide with excitement.

“I can stay too.”

“I think you meant to ask, kid,” Bull says, still grinning.

Lavellan turns to Cassandra. Her face is somber, but her eyes glitter with light.

“Varric manages the agents I’ve deployed in search of any artifacts that might help us understand the Evanuris’ magic,” Lavellan says. “We could certainly use Seekers. And someone with an extensive knowledge of the Forgotten One’s lore.”

Cassandra opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by a knock at the door. The room falls silent. Fenris looks to Hawke. She gives him a nod toward the entryway and takes Lavellan by the right hand. Lavellan exchanges a passing glance with Bull as Hawke drags her towards the back rooms.

“Fenris,” she says.

Bull nods and follows after him. She feels Cassandra and Cole at her heels. They do not make it passed the threshold of the hallway before the front door bursts open.

“Lady Inquisitor!”

She recognizes the sound of her agent’s voice a half second before Hawke extends her left hand.

“ _Wait_.” Lavellan grabs her arm as magic sweeps the room.

She sees the agent as she enters. The sight of her is like a memory. Lavellan thinks it a shame Solas never used her as a proper spy back in Skyhold. With a little instruction, she is actually quite good.

The girl’s dark hair is slipping from the braid over her left shoulder. Her sharp ears are pink from the sun.

“Mirah, you should not be h-”

Lavellan is cut short as the agent fiercely shakes her head.

“It is here, Lady. We have found it. Not far.”

She is panting, brown eyes wide and wild. Lavellan inhales sharply in some attempt to speak. Hawke takes a small step forward. The look on her face is menacingly serious.

“Found what?”

“The idol,” Mirah says, “We have found the idol.”

The others turn to look at Lavellan. For a moment, she does not speak. The air in the room seems too thin.

 _Then there is still a chance_ , she thinks. _There is still a chance to save him_.

“Bull.”

Lavellan’s voice is barely above a whisper. Several seconds pass, and she turns her head to look at him. He is already nodding.

“Always, boss,” he says.

Cassandra is standing beside him, hand on her sword. Hawke’s eyes are sharp and ready.

“Then we go,” she says to them. “Before the Dread Wolf catches its scent.”

She cannot allow him to reach the idol first. They have out maneuvered him once already. To do so again, they will have to be quick. She will not see him corrupt himself for the sake of their People. Not even to save the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting into the thick of it now! Chapters will be longer, so I'll be updating about once a week. I'm so excited to take this where it is going. I need something to quell the post DA4 teaser adrenaline.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Trespasser Solas

Sunlight filters in through the stained-glass window, spilling light in delicate patterns onto the stone floor. Its once rich colors are now cracked and faded. Dust lingers in the air like the fragments of a spirit, devoured by time, left to haunt the ancient ruin. His eyes are sore without the presence of sleep.

Several minutes pass and he manages to pull himself from bed. He is still in the armor he’d worn the night before. Daylight meets his eyes as he approaches the window. The feeling is sharp and unforgiving against the pain in his head. He lingers for a moment, listening to the cold silence. It lasts only a moment before someone knocks at his door.

He exhales quietly.

“Yes?”

The sound of the chamber door opens, and footsteps begin to approach.

“My Lord.”

Solas lowers his head. He does not like the title. But he cannot seem to discourage them from using it.

“What is it?” he asks.

His voice is rough from neglect. He has found little reason to speak lately. When he does, the feeling is mechanical, choking out all the words he truly wishes to say. She is not here to hear them, even if he did. 

The agent’s footsteps grow closer _. Falon,_ he reminds himself. _Falon not Felassan_. 

“We have him, my Lord.”

Solas draws in a slow breath. He lifts his eyes to the colorful light of the window. It fills him with a longing he does not understand.

“Where?”

The agent is slow to respond. Several seconds pass, and Solas turns. The young man seems to square his shoulders. Solas raises an eyebrow.

“Downstairs, Lord,” the agents finally says.

“And the artifact?”

He senses his question is somehow unwelcome. Perhaps he is avoiding it. The agent raises his chin, as if preparing himself.

“He will not tell us. We are still trying.”

Something in him tightens. His jaw clenches. He is close. So very close to what he needs. It has taken much from him to stay ahead of her on this. His agents reported only yesterday that the Inquisition had been caught sniffing around his newest lead. If he did not find it first, he feared what she might do. And what it would do to her in return.

“Take me to him,” Solas says.

The agent stands, unmoving.

“You should rest, my Lord. The agents and I will continue questioning him. I believe we are close now.”

Solas raises his head. The agent looks up at him. Falon’s face is composed. He is sure, burning with conviction, but also aware of his duty. He reminds him so much of Felassan.

“Thank you for your concern,” Solas says. His voice is low and possessed. “Now please take me to him.”

The agent looks at him for a moment. Finally he bows his head.

“Forgive me,” Falon says. “I only wish to see you remain well. I will take you to him, as you request.”

The agent turns, and Solas follows him into the halls of the stronghold. He sees one of the Inquisitor’s agents lingering near the top of the grand staircase. Her blond hair is tucked neatly behind her ears. They exchange a passing glance as he descends towards the lower chambers. He will need to decide soon what to do with her.

The doors to the lower level are guarded by a pair of sentinels who still bare the markings of Mythal. He has offered to remove them, but each time they refuse. He remembers a time when he might have done the same. The scar on his forehead is a constant reminder that those days are long behind him.

The guards nod to him as he enters, and he allows the agent to lead him down the great hall. The ceiling above them arches into an ornately carved mural high overhead. Dust hangs in the stale air, lingering heavily near the edges of the walls, where the stone has begun to crumble. He can hear the sounds of voices as they approach the chamber. The vague flicker of flames dance on the wall across from the open door. When he enters, several of the agents turn to look at him.

His eyes fall to the man kneeling on the floor. His hands are braced in front of him, one eye swollen shut. A line of blood has been smeared from his nose and across the corner of his lip. He turns to Solas the same moment the agents do.

“Smells like dog,” the man growls.

One of the agents grabs him by the shirt, drawing his hand back in a closed fists.

“Leave us.”

The agent turns to look at him, hand suspended in the air. Firelight dances behind him. The scent of blood overtakes his nose.

“You may wait outside,” Solas tells them.

The agents say nothing as they file from the room. Falon gives him a lasting look before he turns to leave. He hears the door shut behind him.

The man is watching him, eyes wary. Solas can smell his fear, fresh and alive, bleeding from him like a wild animal.

“You have something I want,” he says, his voice tactful and dark. “That is unfortunate for you.”

The man lifts his head. He looks him up and down as his gaze narrows.

“You have the eyes of a wolf, you know that?” The man says. “There’s a hunger to them. Something unholy.”

Solas draws his hands behind his back. The man inhales sharply and spits at his feet. Solas takes a step forward, unmindful of the wet spot it has left on the ground. He circles around the man.

“Do you value your life?” he asks.

The man gives a breathless chuckle.

“Do not think you can barter with my life, _Fen’Harel._ You will kill me regardless of what I tell you.”

Solas stops behind him, watching his shoulders tense with unease. The back of his shirt is caked with blood and dirt.

“Indeed I will,” Solas tells him. He lets his words hang in the air a moment, lets them dig into his mind with inescapable certainty. “But there are many things worse than death, I think you will find.”

When Solas comes to stand in front of him the man will not meet his gaze. He sees the hatred in his eyes, it burns harder and brighter than the fear just behind it. Solas tells himself to draw from it. To remember to hate himself just as fiercely. 

“Would you like me to show you?” he asks.

He watches as the man bows his head. It takes Solas a moment to recognize what it is that comes from his lips. The sound is broken and hushed, silently pleading.

“Blessed Andraste, hear my prayer, deliver me from this evil…”

Anger tempts him, but he does not let it seize control. Solas cranes his head. He sees some primal fear wash over the man.

“Your god is dead,” Solas tells him. “She cannot help you.”

He would dare speak of her when he did not even know her? The man’s face seems to boil. He lunges forward on his knees, reaching toward Solas as he cries the word _b_ _lasphemy_. 

Solas does not need to raise his hand. The man’s arm stops just short of his armor. His expression warps with pain. Solas watches the man fold forward, cradling his petrified arm to his chest.

“ _Demon_ ,” the man howls.

Solas raises his head. He is close now. He must maintain control.

“You still have one good arm yet, child. Shall I spare it for your funeral? Or would you have me take it from you now?”

Solas lifts his hand. Magic warms his fingers, and the man’s face drains of color. Light floods the room as the door to the chamber is thrown open.

“Lord Fen’Harel!”

Felassan rushes into the room. _Falon_ , he reminds himself. He is panting, as if he has only just been running.

“My Lord, the Lady Inquisitor is moving. She has found it.”

Fear splits like a spire through his chest. The idol. She has found the idol. _No._

“Where?” he commands.

“North,” he says quickly. “Tevinter, we think. But we cannot be sure.”

The man behind him begins to laugh. Solas turns.

“The wolf is fast, but can he outrun the Dread Inquisitor?”

He rolls onto his back, still clutching his arm as he chokes on his words.

Solas feels the anger as it seizes control. He reaches down, taking the man by the arm. Felasson calls after him but he is much too late.

The air around them thins, bending, until the veil is gone, and the room vanishes into darkness. Air whips around him like a storm. The man screams, but the sound is cut short as they make a sharp landing on the ground. The light of the Fade dawns overhead. He drops the man next to a shattered Eluvian.

“What is this?” the man asks, scrambling back. “Where are we?”

Solas can feel the presence of spirits drawing near, and the dark scent of demons not far behind.

“Where is the idol?” he asks.

The man begins to laugh again. The sound stops when he hears the sharp cry of a shriek. His face hardens in cold fear.

“The Fade?”

Solas’ eyes flash with cruel pleasure. He grabs the man by the neck, pulling him close.

“Tell me,” he commands. “Or I shall leave you here longer than your mind will ever comprehend.”

The man pales. He tries to pull away but Solas tightens his hand.

“The demons here follow me readily. I will see that they make use of that time well.”

The shrieks grow louder, closer, air burning as fire begins to crawl its way from the ground. He must do this. He cannot let the idol slip away. Not into her hands. It will destroy her.

“Tevinter,” he says eagerly.

The man’s eyes widen, red light dawning on his face. Solas can feel the rage demon just behind him.

“ _Who_?” he commands.

“A Magister! Lady…Lady Myrin. Maker, _please._ ”

Solas exhales sharply through his teeth. He lets the darkness in him reach out, creeping over the man’s thoughts, latching on to the image of the magister, and the brief flash of a finely kept courtyard. _There._

Air whips around him in a torrent. The veil weakens and tears. He can see the courtyard in front of him as the hole in the veil widens. Solas takes the man by the shirt and throws him through. He lands on his back with a solid thud and scrambles to his feet, wasting no time as he sprints off towards the trees. Solas releases a somber sigh as he watches him go. He will not get far.

The spirits stand behind him as they await his request.

“Come,” he tells them quietly. “We must hurry.”

He steps out of the Fade, landing on his feet in the courtyard. There are servants lingering near the flower beds, carrying ivory pitchers as they draw water from a nearby fountain. They turn to him as he stands. Several drop their pitchers. Ivory shards scatter in fine patters across the marble stone.

“ _Fen’Harel_ ,” one says.

Spirits crawl from the Fade behind him, paying the servants no mind as they move towards the guards across the courtyard.

“ _Ar lasa mala revas_ ,” he says, his heart filled with sorrow. “You are free. Leave here. I will not spare your masters.”

A few of them turn to look at each other. There is a sound, a torn scream, and he sees a guard vanish inside the mouth of a rage demon.

“Quickly now,” he says.

They lower their heads, some still carrying their pitchers as they flee. The last one to leave lifts her gaze to his as she passes.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

He feels his ears lower. He watches her go before turning back to face the courtyard. Guards are shouting orders, scrambling to gather formation against the spirits still spilling from the Fade. Several arrows shoot past him.

“This way! He's here!”

Solas looks up at the archers standing near the edge of the balcony. They draw back in unison, arrows gleaming in a straight row. He lifts his hand in a sharp gesture. They freeze before they can release their strings. In that same moment he feels the air ripple. The smell of magic fills the air. Not his, but deep, like the evergreens of an ancient woods.

 _No_.

He sees the air warp several yards ahead. In an instant she is walking the courtyard, her mantle sweeping the marble floor. Her long hair is sleeked back from the wind. He sees her hand, shaped by the light of Arlathan, and the blade that spikes down in its place.

“Inquisitor!”

He does not know why he calls to her. It happens like an instinct before he can stop himself. She turns to him. The others are running towards her. He hears the Iron Bull shout something that neither of them can understand. Before he can move, she is gone, vanishing into the Fade.

He curses himself. He knew he shouldn’t have taught her how to Fade step. She is at the entrance of the estate before he can reach the gate.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” he says sharply.

The demons are still trying to break through the gateway doors. He sends the veil forward, and they cave inward with a loud, metallic shriek. The spirits pass over them in a wave.

“Solas!”

He turns, seeing Bull not far behind him. Another elf is approaching, wielding a sword no shorter than Bull’s. His arms are wired and bright with blue light. _Fenris_ , he thinks. He turns back to see the Inquisitor breaking through the line of guards at the outer door.

“ _No_ ,” he growls.

He steps forward through the Fade, passing the wave of spirits, through the guards at the front. They enter the front hall together. She turns to look at him, eyes sharp, like an animal in chase. The sight of her makes him wired. She strikes through him like a fresh bolt of lightning.

“Nice of you to join us, _da’len_ ,” she says.

His eyes flash. She is gone before he can think. Solas looks ahead to the marble staircase across the grand hall. More guards are filling down the stairs. Spirits sweep around him as they approach the line. He hears someone shout from behind him. Light flashes, and fire erupts from the steps, taking a good portion of the guard. _Hawke_.

He does not turn, Fade stepping forward, bypassing the stairs, his mind splitting in two separate directions. He must find the idol. But an even greater, more ruthless part of him pushes that idea away. He must find _her_.

It is as though some part of him has suddenly snapped. As if the time he spent away from her has lingered in the back of his mind, growing, feeding from her absence, only to overtake him in her presence. He feels it as it possesses him, and he is helpless to stop it.

He sees her ahead of him, conjuring a rune against a magister who has fallen to his knees. Another is approaching swiftly behind her. He realizes she does not see him. The mage lifts his hands to call an element. Before he can, Solas extends his hand, catching him on an upward swing.

She turns as she hears him seize. Her eyes widen before they fall to him. The hall they occupy is long, bordered with windows and lace curtains. Sunlight filters gracefully onto the side of her face. Her green eyes burn brightly, warm and familiar. He wants to call out to her, to tell her to stay, but she is gone before he takes a step forward.

He cannot stop himself from following her.

They tear through the Fade toward the upper level of the estate. There are fewer guards here, and she barely stops between each step. She is getting strong. Much stronger than he expected. How foolish he has been to underestimate her.

Eventually she leads him through a side panel and into a hidden room. Standing inside he can see no doors. There is no light here. His eyes train rapidly to the darkness. He can hear it then; the hum of lyrium, slow and muted, and deeply wrong.

For a moment he does not see her. Panic flashes through him. He turns, spotting her near a small platform on the other side of the room. She is standing over a stone crate. The look of it is old, intricately carved, made of polished dark marble. The song grows louder. He can hear it, coming from the box at her feet. The box that she has already opened. Already reached inside, already taken the silk cloth that is wrapped around Mythal’s foci. He sees the thing, held delicately in her beautiful hand. It should not touch her. Not her.

“Lavellan!”

 _No. Please, Mythal, no._ But it is too late. Lavellan holds it up. The light inside grows warm, and the song becomes louder, deafening, sickly wrong. And then she is gone.

His eyes flash.

“Inquisitor!”

He hears Cassandra calling her name. Footsteps are running towards him. Light floods the room as a side panel in the wall is torn open. He does not know when, but he finds himself on the ground, kneeling. Numb. He is numb.

“ _No._ ”

He hears the word leaving him over and over, but it do not feel like his. Cassandra is still calling to her. He sees a pair of wrapped feet come to stand in front of him. Something cold rests beneath his chin. The end is sharp against his throat. He lets the sword lift his head.

He looks up and sees Fenris standing over him. His eyes are hard, lit with hate.

“Where is she?”

There are no words that will come to him. He feels Cole kneel beside him. His hand rests tenderly on his shoulder.

“ _Hand wrapped, delicate and light, she takes the evil. It should not touch her. Not her. Mythal, please, not her. My fault. My fault. My_ …She is gone.”

Fenris draws his sword away.

“Gone?” Cassandra asks. “Gone where?”

He buries his face in his hands.

“Solas.”

Bulls voice calls to him, low and familiar, like an old friend. _Friend_. He should not call him that. He does not deserve to. Solas does not speak when he looks up at him. He cannot. He will not say the word. _Lost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the kudos. If you’re reading this, you’re amazing! Next chapter will be long so be sure to curl up with a nice cup of tea ;)


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan's POV  
> (Inspired by Nightcall by Kavinsky)

She shivers against the cold. The thin sleeves of her tunic do little to keep her warm. Her breath fogs in the dark air as she turns, arms tightening around herself, shoulders stiff against the frigid wind. Her eyes search blindly, unable to make out the shapes that dance around her in the starless night. 

Pain splits up her left hand without warning. She whimpers quietly, too afraid to make a sound. Something tugs at her mind. Something she must remember. Her eyes squeeze shut. _Think._ Something bad, something-

The pain grows, and she cannot hold in a sharp cry. She doubles forward. Though she tries, she cannot see well enough to examine her hand. A sound approaches behind her. She spins, panting in anguish, but is too blind to see. She resists the urge to call out. After a moment of silence she looks back down in the direction of her hand. For a split second, she thinks she sees light in the center of her palm. It is green and strictly brilliant. But then it is gone. Seconds later it returns, this time brightly gold. The sound comes again. The air catches in her throat as she turns.

The light in her hand stays just long enough for her to lift it, aiming it out at the dark forest, and see a dark shape pace between the trees. She inhales sharply as the light fades. The sound is approaching, growing louder as it comes. She takes a step back. The pain in her hand is enough to make her sick. She clenches her jaw, holding her breath, but the sound does not cease. It is close now. Right in front of her.

“There you are.”

A voice envelopes around her on the air, soft and darkly alluring. She takes a step back but is stopped by the prickle of rough bark. She feels warm air rush out across her face. Her mind scrambles to make reason of what she is seeing. Of the voice on the air, and the wolf, so very tall, standing over her. It leans forward, nuzzling its nose beneath her jaw. Hot breath greets the side of her neck. The action is careful, and oddly comforting. It reminds her of something. _Think, damn it._ _Why can’t you remember?_

“You are worried,” the voice says.

She shakes her head, trying to retrain her thoughts.

“I am.. I am lost. Maybe. I do not know. I cannot…”

 _A sword_. Yes! Wait, no. A dagger. A red dagger. Pain erupts from her left hand. She sucks in a sharp breath, falling to one knee.

“Makers,” she cries.

The wolf’s nose comes to nuzzle against her left hand.

“And you are hurt,” the voice says.

She feels tears warm her eyes. She does not understand them, but she cannot seem to push them away. 

“Who are you?” she asks softly.

There is a pause in the air. Suddenly the wolf pulls back.

“Ah,” the voice sounds disappointed. “Forgive me. Sometimes I forget myself. You do not experience time in the same manner as I.”

The wolf sits. It lowers its head in an oddly familiar gesture.

“You are Order,” he tells her. “The year is seven thousand one hundred and two Ancient. We are in the forest north of Arlathan. There is no war here. You are safe.” The voices hesitates before continuing, “Here you call me Solas.”

She lets out a sound, somewhere between a laugh, and a quiet sob. _Solas_. Of course. She can remember Solas. He has another name too. Something many dare not speak. _Dread Wolf_. There is another brief flash of pain in her hand. But she feels something warm and soft quickly quell it. The sensation is so deeply familiar it draws more tears to her eyes.

“I did not know that _Fen’Harel_ was such a literal term,” she says, sniffing.

The wolf tilts his head in a rather curious gesture.

“ _Fen’Harel_?” he says.

Order shakes her head. Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say. She tries to think. _Year seven thousand one hundred and two Ancient_. Mythal. The name crops up inside her mind with surprising ease. Perhaps she is here. Perhaps she is…alive.

She feels the wolf’s nose nudges gently against her arm. His head is hanging just in front of her. Warm breath rushes across the side of her face and she feels goosebumps rise on her skin.

“Forgive me,” she tells him, shaking her head again. “Maybe I am confused.”

“That is what they call me there? In the place where you have just come?” he asks. “Liar wolf?”

For a moment she thinks she might lie. To spare him, at least here, of what his name means to so many others. Liar, Betrayer; names she knows with unshakable certainty. They are something she can never forget. But she quickly puts the idea aside. She will not lie to him.

“Yes,” she says quietly.

The wolf studies her as if he is waiting for more. Her voice hardens when she speaks again.

“Though it is not what I call you. It is meant as slander, it is not true.”

That does not seem to satisfy him. He looks away from her.

“Yet you did not recognize me when I came to you,” he says. “I have kept this from you.”

She is not certain, but she thinks he is frowning. Order sits forward on her knees. She hesitates, then reaches out, placing her hand on the center of his chest. The feeling is somehow familiar. She finds it comforting. The wolf’s fur is soft and warm. The familiar warmth stretches outward, coming around her in a formless, gentle gesture.

“I am sorry, my heart,” he says.

The way he speaks makes her heart hurt. The pain is fresh, as if it has never ached before. She knows it is not fair. He should not bear the burden of mistakes he has not made.

“You have no reason to be sorry,” she tells him.

She means it more than he will understand. More than she might, even. Who he is, what this place is, she is still not certain. Suddenly Order frowns, realizing what he just done. He has called her his heart.

“How often have I visited this place?”

Order looks up at him. Cold air blows through the trees, and she is grateful to have him so close, blocking the wind, his soft fur ruffling around him like dark wisps of veilfire.

“Visited?” he says in a manner of confusion.

Her eyes do not leave his.

“You do not visit. You are always here. Well…relatively.”

She sits back on her heels, her frown deepening.

“I do not understand,” she says.

He does not seem surprised at that fact.

“It is seidr. The gift of your People,” his voice takes on an air of pride. “On occasion you leave, but that time is short. At least as it were here. To you, it might be years or even lifetimes before you return; even longer if you were to travel and return in different points of time. But that time lasts mere days to each world you leave behind when you travel.”

Order lets out a soft breath. She frowns. When she stands, he does the same. His ears perk towards her.

“If that is true, then why do I not remember this place? Am I always this confused when I return?” she asks.

He watches her as she begins to pace, crossing her arms against the cold.

“Rarely.”

He lets the word linger a moment. His voice is careful when he speaks again.

“There are other worlds, much different than this one, that do not seem to affect you in the same way. There is only one you visit in which a part of you does not return. Though you tell me of your other travels,” he looks away from her, and his voice grows quiet, “that one you do not tell me of.”

She stops, and her eyes shift to him. When he looks back to her she shakes her head.

“I…” She faces him fully, taking a step forward. “I am sorry.”

But he is right. She will not tell him. It would not be fair. Not unless she is certain their worlds are the same. And even then…

Order shakes her head at the idea. She feels an unexpected spike of fear drive through her at the notion of telling him. No, not telling him. But what he will say in return. What he would ask her to do if he knew what he might become. He would ask her to stop him. She knows this as surely as she knows his name.

 _I should be dead, my heart_.

She does not feel the tears that fill her eyes until they have spilled over. They make little sense to her. But the pain that accompanies them is blinding. The air in her lungs feels thin. As if she cannot breathe.

The air sharpens with a swirl of dark smoke. Order feels his hands as they gently take her face. She looks up to see him, _him_ , his face, his blue eyes tender as they search hers.

“Do not be sorry,” he says softly.

The words leave his lips in a white whisp. His thumbs swipe at the cold tears on her cheeks as he gives her a warm smile.

“Come,” he says. “I will take you home. Sacrifice has asked me to bring you to him when you have returned. He will not spare me if I don’t.”

His smile turns playful as he takes the edge of his fur mantle and drapes it over her shoulders. The gesture is sweetly familiar.

“Sacrifice?” she asks with a frown.

He makes a low hum.

“Yes, he will not be happy to know I have caught you first.” His eyes flicker down to her lips before retraining on her gaze. “He fears I am a bad influence.”

His voice is provoking, edging on sarcasm. Something in it pulls at her.

“Will you argue?” she wanders.

That idea seems to entertain him.

“Perhaps,” he considers. “If he should wish to.”

The image of him strikes her as odd. He is unfettered, unashamedly arrogant, free of hurt and regret. Nothing like the image she held in her head. She feels her heart ache. The pain in her hand returns. Order winces. It does not get far before Solas takes her hand, quelling the sting as he laces his fingers with hers. His hand fits so naturally in hers. She finds herself wishing he would draw her close, and give her a proper greeting.

They walk in silence for a while. The soil is damp and soft beneath her feet, the air carrying the crisp scent of evergreen. An owl follows them through the trees as they go. Soon the clouds pass from overhead and the stars appear. Not long after she sees light begin to peek through the treetops. It glitters in the canopy, a soft and deep blue.

“I shall take you to my brother tomorrow,” Solas says then. “I’m certain he would be pleased to give you his blessing. It may help you to remember.”

She looks up at him and sees that he is frowning. His features are fierce and wolf-like in the night shadows that crawl across his face. She is not certain what he means, but at this point, she is tired of asking. Instead, she gives his hand a light squeeze.

He turns his head, looking down at her. His expression softens. She gives him a faint smile.

“I fear I do not recall much of home,” she says. “Though you seem to be an exception.”

The smile he gives her is sweet and slightly wanting.

“The place of your People suits you well, my heart. They will be happy that you have returned.”

The lights in the trees have grown into a soft halo, surrounding the forest as they pass through the outer rim. Other colors glitter like stars, soft gold and brilliant white, floating through the branches like wandering stars. She realizes she can hear them. They hum quietly in harmony, changing pitch in a gradual wave. 

“It is a spell for protection.”

Solas leans in, speaking quietly, as if not to disturb the sound. She realizes he is watching her as she gazes up at the lights.

“It is amazing,” she says.

The sound is beautiful, like a song.

Not long after they reach a gate hidden between a line of redwoods. The doors themselves are stone, large and ornately carved, reaching high into the branches with no end. She hears another sound not far away. It is quiet, whispering like a voice that calls from somewhere in the trees.

“You have returned.”

She notices a pair of sentinels near the front of the gate. Their hair is long and kept, their faces sleekly beautiful. She sees neither of them are brandishing weapons. The elf who has spoken steps forward. His features train into a frown that does not wrinkle his brow. His golden eyes shift to Solas.

“And you have brought the wolf. The All-Father will not be pleased.”

Order gives him a sharp, inquisitive expression. She is about to ask why. But Solas does not seem surprised.

“Indeed he would not,” he says. “If your All-Father were here.”

That tone again. Provoking and playfully arrogant. The other sentinel looks to Solas.

“Yet the _Björn_ is,” he says. He turns to her, as if to appeal to her sense. “Your father will disapprove of this. He will not be pleased if we let him in.”

Order resists the urge to laugh. “My father?” she asks.

Solas releases her hand. She feels the fur mantle come to rest fully on her shoulders as he unfastens the chain around his neck. For the first time she notices he is wearing armor. The front is dark and scaled; the unmistakable texture of dragon skin. The outer panel of his arm guards are sharp like obsidian teeth. The total look of it is vicious, made for blood and the violence of battle.

“Would you prefer I stay out here with you?” he says with an air of amusement. “Your _Björn’s_ son requested I deliver her upon her return. I seek only to provide a service to your great People.”

The last part is said with an exaggerated formality. He places his hand on the chest of his armor, as if he might bow. Both of the sentinels look at him. His eyes are lit by some dark flame, something ancient, deep as the roots beneath their feet. Order wraps the mantle around herself to shelter out the wind. Finally one of the watchmen lets out a short breath. Light breaks through the center of the gate and the doors begin to part.

“They do not trust you,” she says quietly, gazing up at him as they start toward the doors.

The edge of a smile still lingers on his lips.

“They are bound by superstition,” he tells her.

The sentinels watch him as he goes. They do not seem amused.

Solas follows her as she passes through to the other side, giving the guards a formal nod. They do not get far before Order finds herself stopped on the inner road. He takes her hand as he pauses beside her. 

She is not certain what she was expecting. But nothing she could have imagined would compare to what she saw before her now. The trees here are large and mountainous, wrapped in intricate staircases hung only by flowering vines. Long bridges lace between the canopy, draped in vibrant foliage that spill like evergreen falls to the soft grass. The song in the air is passing, vanishing when she does not listen for it, only to swell when she does, each one different than the last. The smell of the air is crisp and pure. Birds flutter and sing despite the presence of night.

When she looks up, she is certain she sees more stars than sky. She can feel the magic that lingers here. It is powerful and old, filled with ancient secrets. There is no pain in her heart in that moment. Only beauty.

“It reflects the heart of its people,” Solas says, gazing out at the fruiting vines along the path. She finds herself captivated by his face, bathed so gracefully in light. He turns to look down at her. His eyes warm with a soft smile. “And the beauty of my heart.”

The pain in her heart feels like it never was. She wishes for nothing in that moment, and her hand pulls him closer. His eyes flash. She sees him glance down at her lips. Order smiles, hopeful in the idea that she could kiss him. It seems the only natural thing to do. As if she has done it a hundred times in this world before.

“Sister!”

A voice calls to her from somewhere off the path. The sound of it strikes her as odd. She turns. Solas lets her hand fall away.

“How...”

The word comes from her like a reflex. Something passes over her and for a moment she forgets herself. Any sense of time or place vanishes, and her mind becomes certain. She sees her brother walking towards her beneath the veil of evergreen. His face is free of the mark of Dirthamen, free of the scar along the left side of his face left behind by a noble’s sword. His hair is still the same deep, woodsy shade of red. He smiles when he sees her, taking off in her direction. She takes a step back. Solas rests a hand on her back as if to steady her.

“It’s alright,” she hears him murmur.

“He is dead,” she whispers.

She knows that. Knows it more than anything else since she has arrived. Her brother slows as he reaches the edge of the path, trotting over to her.

“You have kept me waiting,” he says breathlessly. He raises an eyebrow, coming to a stop. “And you have brought the Sköll. Well done.” His features are scathing as his gaze switches to Solas.

She opens her mouth but is unable to speak. His smile broadens.

“You are truly so sad to see me?” he teases.

She takes in a breath, but the sound is fragmented. The world swirls together in a colorful frame of tears. Before she realizes what she is doing she has taken hold of his arm. Her grip is tight, unrelenting as his green eyes widen. His face is so whole and beautiful. It is not agony she sees in it. Not fear, nor that deadly, knowing sadness. But happiness. She cannot remember the last time she has seen that look on his face.

Her other hand comes to rest on his shoulder and she pulls him in. He lets out a soft “ _ow_ ” as she wraps her arms around him.

“You fool,” she says quietly, tears spilling out onto her cheeks. “You idiot, fool. You should have _run_.”

She feels magic swarm around her from all sides. Some of it she recognizes, some she does not, dutifully nestling against the sore spots in her heart. Her brother wraps her in a hug that is careless and too tight. It is like touching a memory.

“I am alright, sister. You have not been gone long. Look…” He draws away, pushing her back at arm’s length. He lowers his head to meet her gaze squarely. “See?” he says with a brilliant smile. “All is well. You are home.” 

Order feels her face twist vaguely in pain. “But I do not understand how I got here,” she says.

Her brother frowns, glancing at Solas.

“Her memories have been damaged,” she hears Solas say. “I will bring her to my brother tomorrow. His gift should be able to help her.”

Order turns to him. His face is trained, hardened with a look she cannot quite decipher.

“You plan to bring her before your council?” her brother asks.

Solas raises an eyebrow. “Dirthamen maintains his interest in your people. He will grant her his favor, I am certain.”

“And if he does not?” her brother presses. “If your People decide to mark her face and take her from us?”

She sees Solas’ jaw flutter, and his eyes darken. “I would have to be a fool, first,” he says.

Her brother narrows his gaze, but the expression soon softens. He lets out a long breath. She feels his eyes on her.

“You will keep her safe, Sköll. Or you will answer for it.”

Solas gives him a rather provoking half smile.

“The daughter of the Björn does not need protection,” he tells him. His eyes fall to her and he raises his head. “Though I shall always do my best.”

Order wants to ask after her father. But her brother’s face becomes suddenly serious.

“Then we must go,” he says. He does not look to Solas when he says so. “I have something I have been waiting to show you.”

He begins to lead her forward. After a moment she realizes that Solas does not follow. She turns back to see him still standing on the path. Order frowns as she goes to him.

“Will you not come?” she asks.

She is surprised to see his face turn slightly red at the request. He casts his gaze aside.

“I fear you do not know what you ask,” he says.

Her frown deepens. When he looks back at her, there is a wanting to his eyes that makes her face warm.

“Few outsiders are welcome into the heart of the city,” he tells her. “To do so implies favor.”

Order gives him an inquisitive smirk.

“Do you not know I favor you?” she asks.

She knows for certain that it is true. The feeling is lasting, something she cannot imagine herself without. Even beyond this world. He gives her a smile that makes her feel suddenly bare.

“You have made certain to let me know, my heart. But it will show favor in front of your People. That is an entirely different matter.”

Order casts a look over her shoulder. There are several elves farther down the path, picking fruit from the vines that climb the stone archway. Every so often they turn to watch them. Others seem to eye him as they pass, their long dark robes sweeping the path as their bare feet walk the grass in silence. She does not understand his relationship with her People. But she feels inclined not to care.

“Perhaps another time,” he says warmly. “When you are more certain of the implications.”

She gazes up at him, her heart withered by the notion of him leaving. She is not sure of what to say that might convince him to stay. But there is one thing she is certain of. It is a certainty that matters more than any implication.

Order takes him by the front of his shirt, standing on her toes as she draws his lips to hers. He exhales softly in surprise. His breath rushes out to greet her skin and he does not pull away. She kisses him softly, feeling his hand come to rest on her waist. Lights flash behind her closed eyes. Her mouth parts to take his lower lip. He lets out a low hum.

She breaks away then, but does not pull back. His warm breath remains a presence on her skin.

“You are my heart,” she murmurs. “There is not a single world that exists in which I would not have you by my side. If that is the implication, then let it be so.”

How easily the words come to her, and how little she wants to fight them. He gazes down at her as she pulls away. The color in his face deepens. It makes the freckles on his skin more noticeable. 

“You are certain?” he asks.

She gives him a soft smile, glancing down the path to the elves still watching them. His gaze follows hers.

“If you do not accept her invitation, then I shall give you mine to speed this along,” her brother calls to them, still standing in the grass several yards away.

Order laughs. Solas seems to admire the look on her.

“Come,” she says, taking his hand, “You shall be an outsider no more.”

He stays beside her as they venture further into the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sköll: Sometimes another name for Fenrir, the wolf who kills Odin  
> All-Father: Odin's title in Mythology  
> Björn: "The Great Bear"/another name for Thor  
> I'm excited for next week! (Hint: Ever wonder what an out-of-control Solas looks like?)


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Lavellan-starved Solas has a heart to heart with some friends and gets a little destructive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild trigger warning: violence as a means of self-harm  
> Chapter summary for anyone who wishes to skip. Be kind to yourselves!

Solas stands alone on the terrace, gazing out over the empty grassland. A nighthawk calls as it swoops through the outer branches of a tree, the stars overhead half veiled in clouds. His mind is weary, aching for the confines of sleep, but his thoughts will not relent.

He will need to return to the stronghold soon. He can sense that his spell to dissolve the veil is nearly complete. His forces will be waiting for him to prepare for the impending assault on the Evanuris once it has succeeded. It will be a hard fight; one he does not expect to survive to see the end of. Even less now that he has lost the orb and the idol. And the Inquisitor.

Solas sighs, his fingers skating across his forehead as he bows his head in thought. Cole still has not returned from the Fade with any word. Neither have the agents he sent in every direction towards the sea and beyond in search of her. He simply does not understand. The idol is a foci of Mythal’s power. Though it had been corrupted by the betrayal of her death, it still works as an amplifier of the possessor’s power. Yet when Lavellan had touch it, it seemed to have absorbed her entirely.

Light washes over the railing as the door behind him opens. He hears voices echo up the stairs, trailed by the sound of laughter, warm and loose with the kinship of wine. The footsteps behind him are faint but present. Someone leans beside him on the railing.

“I understand what it is you are doing.” Fenris’ voice appears in the thin air. “I think I even understand why.”

Solas does not turn to look at him. He is not looking for company.

“Hell, I would almost call it noble. If I knew people, good people, would not have to pay the ultimate price to let it happen.”

Solas clenches his jaw. He does not wish to speak, but he does so anyway. “Then I would not be so certain you understand why I am doing it,” he replies grimly.

He senses Fenris take a drink from the cup in his hand.

“I have spent the better part of my life in the possession a magister. A man who made sure to show me every chance he could that he owned me body and soul. I lie awake for years, imagining what it would be like to watch the blood drain his body, to hear him beg me for his life. I wanted him to pay, ten times over, for every slight, every lash, every humiliation, every day I went hungry and every night I spent watching the lyrium grow under my skin. I wanted to show him that I was _real_ , and that he was weak.”

Solas turns his head away, glancing towards the trees. He feels his heart twist with the age-old wound of regret.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“I know,” Fenris replies.

His words hang in the air a moment. Warm wind sweeps up from beneath the terrace.

“It is why you and I are not enemies. And why I will follow the Inquisitor into battle when the Evanuris are free. You do not like suffering. Nor do I.”

It has been long since anyone has thought of him in that way. As someone who wishes to mend. To heal, and help. But it is often healers who have the bloodiest hands. And often it is only the blood that others see.

“No,” Solas says quietly. “Though it is sometimes inevitable.”

If it must be his hands that bear the burden of blood, then he will let it be so. He will do what he must to save those he can.

He turns to Fenris rather begrudgingly. The elf looks at him, as if he is deeply unsettled. As if he fully understands the implications of what he has said. The markings on his skin glow faintly in the dark. He wonders if they hurt now the veil is so weak.

“But the idol,” Fenris says. The side of his nose wrinkles in disgust. “Thinking you could use it for…To willingly corrupt yourself when you know she will do anything to-”

He seems torn in what he is trying to say. Fenris lets out a low growl, his hands gripping at the railing in front of him. When he looks at Solas his face is a mixture of anger and uncertainty. His demeanor weakens slightly and he shakes his head.

“I’ve never told Hawke this,” Fenris says with some hesitation, “But the first time we met, I was fucking terrified of her.”

Solas raises an eyebrow. The sudden shift in Fenris is strange. He feels his longing for silence wane just slightly into a morbid curiosity.

“I had been running from mages my whole life. When I saw her, she looked like she’d just crawled out of the cargo hold of a ship with more money than she’d boarded with. She didn’t look like one of them.”

Fenris laughs to himself, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. Solas frowns.

“She offered to help me hunt down my master in exchange for some coin. I had no idea who she was. She looked strong, so I pinned her for the type who could use a sword. I thought the scythe on her back was just to prove a point.”

His smile grows as he gazes up at the stars. The marks on his face seem to draw in the light.

“When we arrive at my master’s estate, the ambush is just…its unbelievable. I think, “oh shit, I’ve just gotten this girl killed for twenty coin.” Then I see her, this woman, standing there, surrounded by demons. And she makes this sound, like a Qunari running headfirst into battle. Her hands don’t even reach.” He lifts his hands at his sides, his fingers turning to claws, as if to make the motion himself.

“There must have been at least six of them on her. Just gone. Wiped out in an infernal fucking blaze of Hawke terror. I knew two things in that moment. That Hawke was definitely stronger than I was. And that I could love a mage.” Fenris chuckles, and Solas sees the blue tint of wine on his teeth. “One who gets most of her jewelry from the pockets of the deceased.”

His cheeks are flushed and his eyes glimmer with a soft, glassy sheen. Solas gives him an inquisitive look.

“Bullshit.”

Hawke’s voice appears in the doorway. Bull is just behind her, holding two mugs.

“I am not _definitely_ stronger. Remember when I had to fight you in the Fade? You nearly killed me in one swing. If you’d have hit me again I’d be dead, and you’d still be off playing puppet with some pride demon – sorry, _spirit_.”

Hawke raises her glass at Solas, as if for his benefit. He scowls, opening his mouth, but Bull bumps his shoulder with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look down as he extends the extra mug.

“No shit,” Bulls says. “I bet that’s a hell of a story.”

Fenris shoots Hawke a red expression. She gives him a grin. When Solas sees it, he cannot help but think of Lavellan. He takes a drink from the mug Bull has handed him. The taste is sharp, overwhelming, and strong enough to make his head spin. It reminds him of her as well.

“My point is,” Fenris trains his attention back to Solas. “The Inquisitor is relentless. She is like a hunter on the scent of blood. Nothing has stopped her before, and nothing will now.”

Fenris jumps up and takes a seat on the railing of the terrace. Solas takes another drink before he can say anything.

“Her and Hawke…the ones like them. They’re terrifying, and unstoppable, and I don’t doubt for one second that she will find a way to come back.”

Fenris is looking at Hawke, though the words feel directed at him. Solas does not relent on his drink. The warmth of the liquor is a welcome reprieve from his thoughts. He sees Fenris place his hand beneath Hawke’s chin. His thumb dances lightly across her lower lip. Solas steels himself against the pain in his heart.

“Yeah,” Bull sighs, leaning back against the stone brick. “There’s just something about a woman who can really kick your ass.” He grins down at Fenris, who turns an even deeper shade of red.

“I think one swing is a bit of an exaggeration,” Fenris says wryly.

Hawke raises her eyebrows. “Oh? Would you like to demonstrate again for the class? I’m sure Bull would be happy to volunteer. Given he is so keen on getting his ass kicked.”

Her sharp blue eyes turn to the Iron Bull, who lets out a hearty laugh.

“Sure, volunteer the big guy after he’s had a couple. Give him a sword, watch him swing it around indoors. That’ll go well,” he says.

Solas raises an eyebrow. He has never known Bull to turn down a fight. Something in Bull’s eyes does not match the smile on his face. In that same moment, Bull’s smile becomes thin. He sighs as he looks down into his mug. When he speaks his voice is longing.

“I bet the boss could pull a fast one on you with that sword of hers. I’d pay to see that.”

The air falls silent. Solas grips the mug in his hand with white knuckles. For a moment no one seems to look at each other.

“I will do it.”

The others turn to him in near unison. Hawke’s face screws in a questioning manner.

“I’m sorry?” she says.

His eyes catch Fenris and the elf holds his gaze.

“You will do what?” Fenris asks. Though he can see in his eyes that he already knows.

Bull’s voice interjects. “I don’t think that’s such a-”

“If you wish to fight, I will fight you.”

Fenris holds his gaze for a moment longer. Finally he hops down from the railing, landing on his bare feet. Solas sets his empty mug on the terrace. His thoughts are muted by the creeping presence of Bull’s liquor. Fenris takes a few steps toward him. Hawke’s hand catches his arm. 

“Why?” Fenris asks.

His eyes are tense, shoulders stiff and square. Solas remains silent. His gaze is dark. Something in it speaks to Fenris. He can see it in the way his nose wrinkles in disgust, in the familiar look of hate, and painful knowing of what it means to loath yourself more than anything. There is something in him that commands release. A beast fed by loss and regret, burning pure white with self-resentment, clawing to be set free with vicious need.

“Swords only,” Fenris says suddenly. “No magic. No armor, shields, or barriers. To first blood, and no more.”

“Fenris…”

Hawke’s voice is careful when she speaks. Fenris does not turn. His eyes do not leave Solas.

“Shall we begin?” Solas asks.

Fenris turns without a word. He watches the elf as he passes through the doorway, following after him. Bull is at his shoulder. Hawke curses as she trails after them moments later. They descend the stairs, and he watches Fenris approach Cassandra, still asleep beside the fire. Her fingers remain curled around the empty cup in her hand.

Fenris pulls the sword from the Seeker’s belt. He tosses it to him, and Solas catches it by the hilt.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Bull says.

Solas comes to stand in the center of the living area. The room is spacious and free of furniture, save for a table on the far wall. He lifts the sword to weigh the blade, his muscles free and warm with drink.

It has been long since he last held a sword. Even longer since he has used one in earnest. He would be lying if he said he had not once been generous with its use; too easy to temp and eager to fight. Though Cassandra’s broad sword hardly compared to the weapon he kept back in Arlathan.

The feeling of the sword in his hand recalls the memory like a hungry ghost, striking through him with a thirst for the elegant thrash of steel through air.

“Remind me to never feed you liquor, Solas.” Hawke is standing near the table, arms crossed as she leans against it.

“He’s not normally this bad. Usually just gets a little mouthy. Its…been a rough couple of days,” Bull says.

The Qunari looks to him, not pleased, but not exactly disapproving. Hawke’s face is just the same. The look in her eyes is not so different from Fenris. She is no stranger to regret.

Fenris pulls his sword from its sheath and comes to stand in front of him. When he tosses the sheath aside Solas can sense the shift in the air.

“Hawke counts down,” Fenris says. “None of your tricks, Dread Wolf, or I will not stop at first blood.” He lifts his longsword, aiming it straight at Solas. “I want to see who _Fen’Harel_ really is, without his magic.”

Solas feels his gaze sharpen. It is easy to forget himself then, and he gives the elf a cutting half smile.

“Perhaps you would like to wait until you can use magic yourself. Or has it happened already? Have you discovered your magic, _da’len_?”

Bull seems unable to contain a laugh. He sees Fenris flash red, and anger burns through his eyes. It feeds the hunger that paces his thoughts.

“Hawke!” he shouts.

Solas parts his feet as Fenris takes a half step back. Hawke exhales loudly.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she says.

Hawke counts down from five. Fenris lunges forward before she can finishes the word ‘one’ and Solas sidesteps his first swing. The movement is astonishingly fast. He can feel the blade as it tears through the air with startling strength.

He does not expect Fenris to turn so quickly, and the elf hits him between the shoulders with the blunt end of his sword, knocking him off balance. Anger swells alongside pain. Fenris swings again without pause. Solas lifts his sword and blocks the blade just short of his neck.

It does not take long to know why Hawke names Fenris the best sword fighter she has ever seen. She bragged about it often at the Herald’s Rest back in Skyhold. Fenris is uncannily strong. Impossibly so, for his lithe build. He can move quickly, able to swipe the two-handed sword left and right multiple times without tiring, only to cut straight towards him the moment Solas is able to block.

No matter how tries he cannot flank him. He blocks a swing towards his right arm but has no time to push through before Fenris has drawn back, bringing the sword straight toward the side of his face.

They continue like that for a good while; Fenris swinging like a mad demon as Solas does his best not to get hit. It is entertaining, certainly, but not the distraction he is looking for. It does not feed the beast gnashing down against his heart.

Eventually Solas glimpses a weakness in his form and takes no time to seize it. Fenris swipes the blade right and Solas ducks, lunging forward in the same moment, knocking him backward with one hard hit from his shoulder.

Fenris curses as he topples. His sword falls and Solas kicks it aside before he can reach. He expects Fenris to back away. But the demon in him will not relent, and Fenris jumps forward, sword be damned. Solas sidesteps and draws the razor edge of his sword along the elf’s right shoulder. The sharp scent of blood fills the air.

The room falls silent. Solas turns to see Fenris touch the wound on his arm. When he draws his hand away his fingers gleam red. He looks at him. Solas sees it then, the face of the demon that had only lurked moments before. Now it is bold, hungry and wild, calling for more than first blood. He feels his own rise to meet it. The dreaded beast stirs within him, powerful and intoxicating, and Solas is happy to oblige.

He casts his sword aside and lets Fenris come towards him. He hears Hawke curse loudly. Fenris lands a hard hit just short of his mouth and the taste of blood swells on his tongue. Pain sparks, but it is not enough.

The fight is different beyond the line of first blood. The risk of injury means nothing. The need to dodge and avoid is replaced by a ceaseless game to overpower, to dominate and withstand pain. Fenris is strong, but his ability to take a hit diminishes swiftly. By then his knuckles are sore and raw. He feels the crackle of magic as it sweeps the room. Hawke’s voice is just behind it. He thinks it is her that calls the element forth, only to see light flash from Fenris’ right hand. Solas drops a barriers just before the fire can lash the side of his face.

“Enough!”

Hawke’s voice is like a whip, snapping the swell of magic from the room. Fenris looks down at his hand. His eyes flash with a deeply pained expression. Solas feels Bull’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him away. He watches Fenris stand and start toward the stairs. Hawke is swiftly at his heels. Seconds later Bull turns him around.

The Qunari’s face is dangerously serious. He pushes Solas back against the column of the living room. The gesture is not hard, but it is unmovably strong.

“You have to stop,” he is saying. He keeps saying it, over and over, until Solas can finally hear it.

His voice seems to quell the beast, and Solas sees his friend standing in front of him. Bull’s hands are painfully tight against his shoulders.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Bull shakes his head to himself. “What was _I_ thinking? Don’t do that shit. Don’t…Don’t act like she’s dead.”

The word splits through him, stealing the air from his lungs. He pushes him away with a growl, but Bull pushes back, keeping him pinned to the column.

“She’s not dead,” Bull says fiercely. “If she comes back and you’re like this…what do you think she’ll say?”

His eyes flash and Solas draws a breath through his teeth.

“You know _nothing_ ,” he says.

 _Gone_. _She is gone_. Anger builds in him once more. It blinds him, hungry, calling to be fed. Bull shakes him and the feeling diminishes.

“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t know. But neither do you. So stop acting like it. No matter what, even after everything you did, she never gave up on you. The least you can do is return the favor.”

 _Grim and fatalistic_. That is what she had called him. She had been right. She was right about so many things. Solas makes a pained expression. Bull’s hands lessen their grip.

“I do not know how to help her,” Solas says suddenly.

His mind is a swirl of adrenaline and drink, deepened by the pain that now spreads throughout his body. A cocktail of blood still swirls warmly on his tongue. Bull releases him and Solas sinks back against the column.

“If you could think of anything, anyway, even if it didn’t work, what would you do?” Bull asks.

Solas frowns. He does not care for the question. It seems useless to consider an answer that would yield no result. But he feels inclined to give Bull an answer, if only for the way he is looking at him now. He casts his gaze to the floor as he thinks. It does not take long for him to answer. His reply is simple. So simple in fact, he curses himself for not thinking of it already. It has worked after the disaster at Haven, when she was lost in the avalanche. And before that, when he had seen her from his resting place in the Fade, lost as a child on the border of the Arlathan forest. 

_A beacon_.

Solas reaches under his collar and pulls the green amulet from beneath his shirt. The thing is tarnished now, old and withered from all the times he has held it, half set to use it, only to shut himself away from her. Bull looks down at the gem in his hand.

“Is that…”

Solas looks up at him, and Bulls words fall away. He is fool, he knows that truth about himself, but damn him if he will let her slip away again. He will not allow it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week is a long one. Might have been a little over productive during the holidays...also trying to lay the finishing ground work for a big ol' surprise for you guys in the next few chapters (ehem...must have been the wind). Thank you everyone for being so patient.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck it, double feature this week.  
> Lavellan learns about the seid, and gets a warning from her people about Solas. Fluff and some much needed comfort ensues.

“Do you hear it?”

Order stands at the edge of the well. The encompassing dark stone is polished and finely carved with rune markings. Inside the water is black and viscous, glittering with the colors of the night sky. Her brother’s face is lit with an inquisitive sort of caution as he studies her. She frowns. The voice she hears is faint, whispering just below the surface, vague yet familiar.

“What is it?” she asks.

“It calls to you. What it is, I do not know.”

She looks to him, her brows furrowing further.

“I mean the water. Why is it like that?”

Her brother glances toward Solas who is waiting at the grand doors of the sanctuary. Though she had beckoned him to follow, he’d insisted on waiting there, perhaps out of respect. The sanctuary itself is simple yet prestigious, with unnaturally high, circular walls and no ceiling, acting as channel for the stars to light the grey stone. The look of it is ancient and unmovable.

“It is the matter of the All-Worlds,” her brother tells her. “The material present in every world to exist. It is how we are able to travel, by calling these waters from beneath the ground.”

He speaks as though he might call her _child_ when he is finished.

“The well is merely a way to communicate with others beyond this world. You do not have to pass through the well to travel. You may use your seidr anywhere.”

Solas must have seen the confusion on her face. His voice is less chiding than her brother’s.

“Perhaps you have returned too quickly, sister. It could be another world still calls to you,” her brothers says with a air of disappointment.

“What do you mean?” Order asks.

Her brother’s eyes move back to Solas.

“Please stop doing that, you’re giving me a headache.”

He smiles at her teasingly.

“I mean, _child_ -” Order scoffs at her brothers use of the word- “We are _seid_. We carve the fate of these worlds. Whether they will grow to heal or fall to darkness. Our power binds us to this duty. Each world has its own prophecy.” His eyes gain an air of sadness then. “And each of us are called to the ones which suit us best. Leaving before our duty is finished can be dangerous.”

She feels a similar sadness creep over her.

“So I am called to this…other world because I am Order?” she asks.

Before he can respond she looks up at him urgently.

“And you…”

 _Sacrifice_. Solas had called him Sacrifice. Something deeper than sadness takes hold of her. The image of him is still sharp, kneeling on the ground as a man draws back his sword for a second strike. She may not remember much, but that will never leave her.

Her brother drops a hand on her shoulder and shakes it lightly. The memory fades as quickly as it has come.

“Do not worry so much,” he says with a smile. “You will bore me to death with all your tears, sister.”

Order lets out a long breath, her left-hand clenching idly at her side. She casts her gaze back toward the well. The whispering has not stopped. She can hear it, a faint voice, deep and oddly familiar. She frowns. For a moment she can almost make out the words. Maybe if she were to come closer-

“You should rest.” Her brother gives her shoulder another shake, this one less teasing than the last. “Father will wish to see you once he hears of you return. We should not give him cause for concern. Especially since you have brought the Sköll into the city.”

He casts a spiteful glance towards Solas that seems wholly disingenuous, quickly chasing it with a smile. She follows him as he descends the steps of the platform.

“You do not mind that he is here?” she asks.

Solas takes her hand as they pass through the doors. He exchanges a rather canny glance with her brother as they go. The look is brief, but is enough to tell her the pair of them is trouble.

“Your brother does not fear the All-Father,” Solas tells her. “Nor a wolf with no appetite.”

Her brother sighs when she glances at him in confusion.

“His people may call him Pride, but to us, the word means Sköll; Treachery. The name of the wolf who hunts the gods and chases the sun.”

She nearly stumbles as they break out onto the main path.

“I’m sorry?” she says.

Solas looks down at her with a frown, noticing her brief hesitation. Her brother is not so astute. Several elves are walking the path in front of them, glancing back in their direction as they whisper.

“It is the prophecy of this world, sister,” her brother says, his expression thinning. “The two-faced wolf will be the harbinger of this world’s end. And since _your_ Sköll has the face of both man and wolf, our people think that it will be him who- I am sorry, would you like to join this conversation or simply continue to gawk?”

The elves ahead of them turn quickly to face the road, chased away by her brother’s sudden custodial bark.

“It is superstition, not a prophecy,” Solas cuts in wryly, ignoring the spectacle entirely. His eyes watch her as though to gauge her reaction.

“Suddenly you do not care for prophecy, brother?” she asks, keeping her voice trained.

“I care for prophecy a great deal, sister. But there is little reason to believe that _your_ Sköll is the sun-chaser. It is not the sun I see him chasing.”

Her brother looks back at her with a teasing smirk. It gains a mean edge as her face turns hot.

“We shall only know the true Sköll once this world’s time has come. And which of _us_ will be called to decide its fate. In the meantime, I should rather see my sister happy. Rejecting fate will not stop it either way.”

Order realizes they are moving upward on a steep incline. The lights that move through the trees hum softly in shades of pale gold. Farther down the path she can see the base of a large set of doors. It is difficult to tell whether they approach some greatly carved citadel or the foot of a mountain. The textures and carvings are fine, but the size of it is impossibly large.

When they reach the doors Solas leans down to her.

“It is a spell,” he says quietly. “It will move quickly.”

His hand tightens just a little over hers.

Quickly is perhaps not the word for it. When the doors part, she sees nothing but darkness waiting on the other side. The feeling she gets when stepping through is like taking an unexpected Fade step. However instead of moving forward, she is moving up. The wind has no time to warp around them. The moment light disappears it is reborn above her in a chorus of stars. The movement makes her feel slightly heady. She feels Solas give her a quick assessing glance as they step out under the clear sky.

Looking around Order realizes that they have not moved _in_ to the monolith, but that they are now on top of it, and that it is not a monolith at all, but most certainly a mountain. The air here is thin and crisp. The citadel in front of them is capped by a set of horned towers on either end, each one glittering with their own colorful light.

Solas draws his grip from hers, folding his hands behind his back in a clearly formal gesture. He lingers just behind her shoulder as they walk. The arrangement is familiar and comforting- as though he means to guard her.

“Sköll, should we run into our father…”

Her brother turns to them as they reach the entrance to the citadel. Before he can continue, Order cuts him off.

“You should not call him that. It is not his name.”

She hears Solas chuckle. Her brother looks to her stiffly. He considers her words for a moment before nodding once and turning back to face the stairs.

“Pride, should we run-”

“Order has entrusted me with her invitation. I will defer to her on when to leave. Not your _Björn_.”

Her brother laughs a little madly, running his hand through his hair to scratch the top of his head.

“I was going to say remain silent. But brazen defiance works just as well,” he says. “Though you two might want to work on your conversation etiquette.”

Order laughs.

Her brother leads them towards the nearest tower to the east of the stronghold. There are few elves walking the halls as they enter, perhaps due to the hour, which is beginning to wear on her more noticeably. He takes the left wing on a set of stairs that leads them toward a grand passageway. The area beyond consists only of archways and ivory columns. Soon they reach a door on the far end, and her brother stops. He turns to her. She sees his face twitch subtly with concern.

“I will return in the morning. I hope you will wait until then before taking your leave.” His eyes turn to Solas. “You will take her to your people then? So they may help her?”

Solas gives her brother a formal nod. “Dirthamen will be pleased to help in any way he can. I will send word once we leave, to assure you of your sister’s safety.”

Her brother lets out a weighted sigh. “Then I shall leave you for the night.” He drops a hand on her shoulder and pulls her forward to kiss the top of her head. “All will be well, sister,” he says, shooting Solas a demanding look.

She watches her brother retreat back down the hall. When she turns to Solas he is studying her with an inquisitive expression.

“You will stay?” she asks him quietly.

His blue eyes search hers as he speaks. “If you would like,” he says softly.

She takes his hand as she opens the door to the room. The air inside is warm and smells of fresh linen. She can see only stars through the balcony on the far side of the quarters. A fireplace roars a safe distance from the foot of a canopied bed, a small table and chairs set just beside it. Though it is beautiful, there is a familiarity to it that keeps her from feeling the urge to explore.

She leads Solas toward the fireplace before turning to face him. When she does, she sees the slight hint of color to his cheeks. She does not release his hand.

“Have I brought you here before?” she asks. 

Solas looks at her before casting his gaze to the fire. “No,” he says. “And I fear I should not have come. You are…not yourself. Perhaps it is not right.”

She feels her ears lower. Though she cannot explain it, the idea of him leaving feels wrong, painful even. Yet deeply familiar.

“You are free to go, if you would like.”

The words rake their way out of her. She knows she has said them more times than she ever wishes to. His hand comes to rest tenderly beneath her chin, and he lifts her gaze to his.

“It is not a matter of what I would like,” he says gently. “I only wish to do what is right by my heart.” 

Order takes his hand and draws it down over her heart. His face warms with color as he exhales softly.

“Then you shall stay,” she insists, gazing up at him.

His blue eyes linger on his hand in hers. When he looks up he gives her a soft smile.

“Very well.”

His fingers brush the side of her face as he leans down to kiss her cheek. The gesture is lingering and slow, his breath skating across her skin, and she feels her skin grow warm. His touch is simple, yet commanding. It begs for more. Demanding her to touch him, though she knows he will not allow it.

Her hands come behind her in a wordless acknowledgment. A promise not to touch, until he grants allowance. The game is familiar. One she knows he loves. When he pulls away she lingers close. Her head tilts as she gazes up at him. His left brow raises in a canny expression.

“You tease me,” he says, as if he did not expect it.

“My apologies,” she says.

His throat bobs as he laughs, flashing a smile that makes her heart squeeze.

“Is that so?”

His eyes burn like ancient runes in the firelight as he takes in the sight of her. After a moment he seems to train his expression, though the hint of a smile never leaves his gaze. He takes a step towards her.

“Turn around,” he says softly.

She does as he asks, keeping her hands folded neatly at her back. Solas steps forward, coming to stand just behind her. She feels his fingers hover just above the pulse point of her wrist. Static builds on her skin as his fingers linger, moving slowly, trailing up her arm. She is not certain when his touch will come. Or if it will come at all. The uncertainty builds into a sense of longing, growing quickly into need. His breath rushes faintly along the side of her neck.

“Try all you’d like, my heart,” he murmurs.

His voice beckons her to turn. His fingertips grace her neck as he brushes the hair from her shoulder. She nearly shivers at his touch. Without warning he reaches forward and unfastens the chain still holding the fur mantle on her shoulders. It makes a ruffling sound as it slips free and falls to the floor.

“It is a game you will not win.”

His voice is sweet but unmovable, almost a warning.

His fingers work the buckle to her chest plate next. The armor she wears is pliable and soft, a dark material painted with a single white rune on the left breast. When he pulls the latch she watches it fall to the floor. It lands face up on the grey stone, the symbol bright in the light of the fire.

“Come.”

Solas’ voice is soft and beckoning. He takes her by the hand and leads her towards the bed, away from the warmth of the hearth. He sits her down on the bed and begins pulling off her boots. The gesture is sweet and slightly domestic. Order frowns.

“You say I have not brought you here before,” she says suddenly. “Does that mean we have not lie together?”

Order studies him, and his eyes fleet briefly to the bed behind her. She senses the question disappoints him. Even so, he smiles.

“My apprehension does not come from inexperience.” His hand rests gently beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to his as he stands. “I simply will not have you unless I can have _all_ of you.”

Solas squeezes her chin playfully before letting her go. She watches him begin to unwork the buckles on his armor. He drops the chest plate onto the stone floor with a heavy thud before reaching for the vambrace on his right arm.

“To answer your question, yes.” His lips warm with a faint smile as he works the buckles on his forearm. “Many times. Though never in a place quiet so…domestic.” The way he speaks makes her cheeks flush with color. The feeling worsens as he looks at her, head lowered, blue eyes dark and canny. “My heart is rarely so tame.”

He crawls into bed with her once he is finished, though he does not get under the sheets. At first she thinks it is his apprehension that leads him to do so. But when he wraps his arm around her, drawing her against him, she notices how unbelievably warm he is. Perhaps he is simply more comfortable that way. 

It does not take her long to drift off. When she does she dreams of snow, of the barking of dogs and green skies, and pale, tender hands, taking hers, pleading for her to come home. She awakes just before dawn to the call of howling wolves.

For a while she lies awake listening to rain patter quietly on the balcony. Beyond the ornate window, the sky grows a tender shade of pink. There is nothing in that moment but peace. Behind her Solas lets out a soft sigh, his breath gracing the side of her neck like a small breeze. His hand tightens on her waist. She waits, but he is otherwise still. A moment later a knock comes at the door.

Order sits up, careful not to disturb the sleeping wolf at her side. The door opens and a man enters. One she does not recognize. He is short, lithely built, his grey eyes wide with a certain look of worry. He holds a tray with a small circular lid. The scent of sweet bread fills the room as the man takes a tentative step inside.

“You look well,” he says.

His voice is soft and soothingly sweet. Order raises an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, glancing down at Solas. He is breathing deeply, one arm wrapped loosely around her waist.

The young man looks down at the tray in his hands. The worry in his eyes turns to sorrow.

“He said you might not remember me.”

“Compassion!”

The sound of her brother’s voice rings through the outer corridor. A second later he appears in the doorway, skidding to a halt.

“I told you to wait, Order is not herself.”

He exhales sharply in an attempt to catch his breath. The young man turns to look up at him.

“She is weary. I want to help.”

The man, Compassion, stares at her brother a moment. Finally her brother reaches forward and tucks the hair behind one of Compassion’s sharp ears, pinching his cheek in a passing flirtatious gesture.

“Very well,” he says, nudging his shoulder in encouragement.

He takes several steps into the room, tailed closely by her brother, but stops shortly at the edge of the finely woven rug. The young man’s eyes widen as he looks down at the bed.

“You have…is that-”

Her brother reaches forward to keep him from dropping the tray. Compassion does not seem to notice.

“That is the Sköll,” he says with disbelief.

Almost in response Solas tightens his arm around her, hauling her down onto the bed and against him in a sudden, firm gesture. Compassion gasps. Solas buries his face in her hair, his breath rushing out to warm her ear.

“Tell them to _leave_ ,” he groans quietly. His voice is a low, groggy grumble.

“Hospitable as always, Pride,” her brother says from the doorway.

Order rolls over to face Solas, still trapped in the confines of his firm arm. His eyes are closed, dark brows pulled together in a scowl. She runs her fingers along his cheek and brings her lips to the scar on his forehead. The ridges are still fresh and pink. He hums softly at her kiss. When she pulls away she sees his blue eyes dawn beneath lowered lids.

“They have brought food.”

She kisses his nose, then his lips, hoping the offer might tempt him. Instead he takes her face in his hands and chases her mouth as she pulls away. His lips part as he exhales softly against her skin, kissing her in return.

“Can you _not_?”

Her brother’s voice is quickly followed by Compassion’s laughter. The sound is light and undeniably sweet. It quickly ends as Solas sits up rather begrudgingly.

“Is it customary for your people to hound the chambers of sleeping residence so incessantly?” Solas grumbles, running a hand down his face.

She sees his dark gaze settle onto her brother, who comes to stand behind Compassion in a guarding gesture. Compassion’s eyes are wide as he stares at Solas.

Order nudges Solas softly as she brings her legs off the bed.

“Be kind,” she says.

She feels as though she has said those words to him more than a few times. She comes around the bed to greet her brother, giving him a good knock on the shoulder.

“Do you miss me so badly brother? You could not wait until a decent hour?”

She takes the handle of the platter on the silver tray and lifts it. The smell of warm bread and sweet spices waft out in a warm cloud. Her brother flicks her hand away as she reaches down.

“Manners, sister,” he chides.

Order straightens, looking up at him. His green eyes dart to Compassion who is gazing at her with an openly worried expression. She quickly sets the lid back onto the platter.

“Of course, my apologies. Compassion, is it? Thank you,” she nods in a gesture of courtesy, taking the tray from his hands. “I am pleased you are here.”

Her warm smile is lost when his worry gives way to longing.

“How can you be pleased when you do not know me?” he asks softly.

“You should not press her.”

Solas approaches her from behind, taking the tray from her hands. She watches him carry it to the table beside the fireplace. Compassion is still studying her closely. Her brother takes him by the shoulder and gives him a playful shake.

“Come,” he says, “Let’s eat.”

They eat together in relative silence. Her brother is content to wolf his portion down without looking up from the table. Solas picks at his food, his long fingers tearing at the edges of the sweet roll, casting each piece down with a soft _clink_ on his silver plate. When she gives him an inquisitive frown he lifts an eyebrow, nodding his chin towards her plate in subtle encouragement. As she starts to take a bite he turns to look at Compassion, who is staring at Order almost unblinking.

“Did you make these yourself, Compassion?” Solas asks politely.

She revels in the way his voice curls, so fine and poised, like the taste of honey wine. Her brother looks over at him with a cutting glance. Compassion’s eyes light up as he sees her place the food in her mouth. The second it hits her tongue her mouth ceases its attempt to chew. The overwhelming taste of spices and dry bread floods her senses.

“Yes,” Compassion chimes in an airy note. He watches her eagerly as she attempts to swallow, but the bread will not go down. “I wanted to make something special for Order’s return.”

Solas reaches forward and pours water from a carafe into her glass. “That is very kind,” he says, smiling at her pleasantly, as if the act is as charitable as it is innocent.

His arm comes to rest on the back of her chair as she takes a heavy drink. She feels his fingers lightly stroke her back, encouraging her to swallow. His eyes do not leave her brother’s.

Several seconds pass and she finally manages to get it down.

“Thank you, Compassion,” she says, clearing her throat. “It is very good.”

The young man watches her eagerly until she folds and takes another bite. It is less difficult to swallow now that she knows what to expect. Satisfied, he turns to watch her brother as he takes another roll from the platter. When they have all finished, both her in her guilt eating and Solas in his tactful hiding of his food, they stand from the table.

Her brother pulls her in for a hug, kissing the top of her head. His fingers catch carelessly on the loose strands of her hair and she winces as he pulls away. Her heart aches at the notion of leaving. Her brother gives her a knowing smile as they say their goodbyes. She watches them as they leave, feeling silence settle over the room.

“Shall I dress you myself, love?”

Order turns. Solas is standing beside the bed, buckling the vambrace on his forearm. He lifts a brow as he studies her. There is an edge to his gaze that is playful and slightly calculating.

She lets out a soft breath, smiling as she shakes her head. His eyes track her as she retrieves her armor from the ground. She needs to bathe. Her skin longs for the presence of warm water and lavender oil, but she figures now is not the time to ask for such a thing.

Solas comes to straighten the mantle on her shoulders once they are dressed. His eyes dart briefly to her lips as he stands over her, but he never leans in. She knows he will not. Even so, she desperately wants him to. She imagines he knows that too. It is something he enjoys to draw from her; longing and anticipation. He is, unfortunately, devastatingly good at it.

Order follows him out of the room and into the grand hall. Sunlight filters through the open archways, dancing them in and out of shadow as they walk. The elves in the citadel are more concerned with Solas than with courtesy, staring at him without discretion. Most are content to watch; a few whisper and glower. Solas does his best to keep his eyes ahead. There is an edge to them that suggests he does not hate the attention.

“I do not think they like me,” he muses, leaning down to her as they walk, as though he is telling her a dire secret.

She smiles and takes his hand, lacing her fingers through his. He looks down at her. His eyes dart to her mouth and he licks he lips. She can see the wanting in his eyes. When they reach the grand archway leading to the base of the mountain, she decides to indulge him, pulling him to her as she rises on her toes to meet his lips. Before their skin can touch she feels his breath rush out in a quiet chuckle. The air around her grows tight. She is not certain, but she thinks she hears several people gasp. Without warning the world around her vanishes in a flurry of dark smoke.

He holds her firmly against him, his warm mouth still hovering just shy of hers. In the same moment daylight sprawls out around them. Dark wisps swirl on the air, carried away by the breeze. Solas is laughing. Suddenly she realizes they are no longer in the city. They are no longer in the forest at all. People pass by on the ivory road, magic humming in the air. Daylight hangs in an unending sky above the towering archways.

Order turns to him, watching as he grips his side, unable to contain his laughter.

“You frightened them,” she says, giving him a small shove. “They will think you’ve taken me.”

He continues on for a moment before managing to catch his breath. Finally lets out a sigh.

“They will tell the Björn. Then he shall know the _Sköll_ was in his city.” Solas seems to take some deep pleasure from that, lifting his head to gaze down at her with a cutting smile. “With his daughter, no less. The eyes of the seid King will be on Arlathan until she is safely returned.”

Solas puts his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close as he leans down, lowering his voice.

“That shall remind Dirthamen’s court to behave.”

When she looks up at him she sees his smile soften. Order chuckles.

“You do not help your case with them,” she says.

Not far ahead she sees a courtyard adorn with ornate mirrors. His smile lingers as he leads her to one of the towering eluvians at the base of a brilliant fountain. He stops there, gazing up at the glass. His gaze sharpens.

“When we reach the throne room look at no one but Dirthamen. Mind what you say and how you might react. Falon’Din will have his eye on you.”

Order raises an eyebrow. “You mean to play a game?” she asks.

Solas looks her over with an air of admiration. “You will play well, I have no doubt.”

She watches as he presses his hand to the mirror, murmuring words too low for her to hear. In the same moment a temple dawns behind the glass. The sky beyond is grey and misty with dense fog. Solas gives her a lasting look- one which warns her to be cautious. She wonders what it is that lingers just behind his eyes. Whether it is vigilance or something more. Something that burns deeply, begging to be tempted and hungry to fight.

Without another word Solas turns to face the eluvian and she follows him through the glass, knowing she will soon find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: I've done a pretty major overhaul of chapter 26. Rarely will I do that, but when I do, I'll be sure to tell everyone. Hope you all enjoyed this weeks bonus chapter!


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas plays bad wolf to get what he wants--and Lavellan makes a new enemy.

Solas follows the path in silence, his weapon kept deftly in one hand, brandished with the same pride in which he carries himself. The staff in his hand is tall. Its end forms a full-length blade, the top crowned with a set of horns made to bleed a large enemy, sharp enough to pierce dragon flesh; gifted to him by Mythal for that very task. He has yet to meet an enemy of Arlathan it could not fell.

The dark strip of hair on the top of his head is damp with mist, making gooseflesh rise on his neck despite the warm wind. A lone vulture accompanies them through the grey sky as they walk the path towards the entrance of Dirthamen’s temple. He can hear Order’s light footsteps trailing quickly behind him.

“I do not think they are happy you are here.”

Her dreamy voice is hushed but well-humored.

The present nobles watch them closely as they pass. He finds it rather amusing, their wringing of hands, marked faces twisting, clearing the path as he nears. He might have laughed—would it not send the entire courtyard up in barriers. How fearful they seem, for all their glory and favor. How easily their faith fails them.

“Remember to look at no one but Dirthamen,” Solas says, slowing his stride to match Order’s. He does not look at her, though he greatly wishes to. “Falon’Din will be watching you closely. His interest in your people is not as noble as Dirthamen’s.”

Order lingers at his shoulder as they ascend the grand stairs to the temple. When they reach the doors they open on their own, despite the wary glances from the sentinels outside. The smell of fine drink and food swirl on the air. The chatter of idle talk dies away as guests turn in their seats. The doors shuts with a startling echo and the grand hall recedes to silence. He sees Falon’Din jump in his seat, his hand gripping the arm of his throne in ensuing anger.

The sound of his boots echo through the hall as they approach the dais at the head of the room. When they reach the steps, Solas stops, resting the end of his weapon with a _thunk_ on the temple floor. The air is thick with silence.

“ _Solas_.” Dirthamen leans forward on his throne, his long dark hair slipping from his shoulder to rest on the breast of his armor. “I heard no word of your coming. Please, sit. Drink.”

He gestures with one graceful, well-groomed hand toward the table of the great hall. Solas does not turn. He is standing in front of Order, hoping to block her from Falon’Din’s view.

“I am honored, Dirthamen. Forgive my refusal.” Solas nods his head in a gesture of regard. “I am here seeking your council.”

The air turns taut, and a sharp laugh fills the hall.

“Is this Pride I see, seeking council?”

Solas shifts his gaze to Falon’Din.

“What a humble endeavor. Perhaps Mythal has misnamed you.” The mage reclines in his throne, golden eyes lit with conceit. His long blonde hair is tucked neatly behind his sharp ears. He lifts his pale fingers to rest thoughtfully against his chin. “Tell me, _brother_ , why is it that you call yourself a god, yet cannot refer to your own council to see you out of trouble?”

Solas raises an eyebrow, giving Falon’Din a cold look of appraisal.

“I do not consider a mage of formidable skill earned by sheer happenstance a god, _brother_. Though I am certain you would disagree. Given you and I are not so different.”

Dirthamen’s face blooms red with embarrassment.

He is making a mockery of their court, coming here in the midst of a full hall, when Falon’Din is in the eye of the public. Falon’Din who loathes him. Falon’Din, who can never resist a chance to pick a fight with Mythal’s disgraced servant. The servant who burned her from his face and drank from a power that made him an equal of the gods; living proof that if he is not a god, then neither are they. Not Falon’Din nor any other.

“You speak blasphemy in my brother’s court!”

Falon’Din rises from his chair. His voice echoes from the high ceiling of the grand hall. Solas resists a derisive smile. He is simply too easy.

“Brother, please,” Dirthamen says quietly, burying his face in one hand. “Perhaps it is best if we speak in private, Pride.”

He feels a twinge of guilt for embarrassing Dirthamen. But it is the only way to ensure his private council. He needs to lure him from Falon’Din without risking his brother’s suspicion. Inciting an argument that risks humiliation is the only certain way to do so. He will be forced to separate them, giving him time to speak in confidence.

Dirthamen begins to rise from his seat. In the same moment Solas feels Order take a step back.

“What is this?”

Falon’Din’s voice is suddenly approaching. Solas realizes the mage is descending the steps of the dais. His golden eyes have fixed on Order, gaze lit with a conceited sort of curiosity. Like a cruel child reaching for a new toy.

“An offering, perhaps?”

Falon’Din reaches toward her with one graceful hand. Solas drags the blade of his staff between Order and the mage’s invading grasp.

“She is _seid_ ,” he lifts his head in a warning gesture. “Daughter of the Björn, who eagerly awaits her return. She comes only to seek Dirthamen’s aid.”

Falon’Din’s eyes brighten. “A rare creature,” he says, his gaze never leaving her. “Such beauty it holds.”

The mage’s tongue flashes as he licks his lips. The look he gives her burns him. Solas’ free hand comes to a closed fist. _Control_ , he reminds himself. _You must maintain control_. 

“Brother.” Dirthamen comes to stand beside Falon’Din, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Entertain the guests in my absence. I shall not be gone long.”

Dirthamen gives Solas a quick but urgent look toward the back door of the grand hall. Solas takes Order by the arm, perhaps firmer than he intended, following Dirthamen as he leads them towards the private chambers. He can feel Falon’Din watching after him as they go.

The doors shut behind him with a long groan. Dirthamen leads them swiftly towards a door near the towering rear window, his dark robes sweeping the stone at their feet. Once they are inside Dirthamen turns to him with haste.

“You have taken a risk bringing her here. My brother will not forget this. You know how he is when he wants something. Even more so when he cannot have it.”

Dirthamen’s dark brows are knit with worry. Solas sheaths the weapon at his back and draws Order in front him. He gives her a careful once over before releasing her, rubbing tenderly where his hand had gripped her so tightly.

“Are you alright?” he asks her. His brows pull together in a similar manner of worry.

“Are you?” she asks in return.

Dirthamen comes to stand at his shoulder. His fine features are trained and grave in the morning light.

“Falon’Din’s greed grows alongside his power.” He shakes his head as he speaks. “We should not tread carelessly with him. I will not involve the seid in his affairs.”

Anger flares within him like a flame. Solas tears his gaze from Order to look at his brother.

“I assure you I am anything but careless,” he says.

Dirthamen takes him in a moment. Finally he lets out a sigh of concession. His golden eyes softening as they study his.

“Capable that you are, brother.”

Solas feels his heart twist at Dirthamen’s words. There is a kindness to him that reminds him greatly of Mythal. Many times Dirthamen has offered his assistance in smuggling the servants of the other Evanuris to safety. He calls Solas a necessary good. _Good_. Not evil. A rare and wonderful thing to hear.

Dirthamen turns his brilliant eyes to Order. A smile graces his features that is both warm and reverent.

“Forgive my manners,” he bows his head in gesture of respect. “I am honored you have come to me. What shall I call you?”

“I believe they call me Order here,” she says wearily.

He revels in the way she speaks, her voice so poised and enigmatic, always drawing him in.

Dirthamen lifts an eyebrow. “You believe?”

“It is what Pride calls me,” she says in a manner of resolve. “And I am inclined to believe him. He seems to know a great deal about me.”

Her eyes shift to his and he feels his face grow warm.

“Is this true?” Dirthamen looks to Solas.

He clears his throat, hoping to chase away the color in his face.

“Her memories have been damaged. She remembers little of her home, or the places she has traveled from.”

“I see…” the mage says, unperturbed by his avoidance of the question. The air grows warm, expanding, and suddenly he feels his brother’s energy latch on to his own. “And you brought her to me in hopes that my gift may help her. Help _your heart_.”

Dirthamen’s eyes brighten as they dance between Order and himself. Finally his brother lets out a soft chuckle.

“Indeed you seem to know a great deal about her.”

Solas frowns. His brother gives her a far more formal bow, this one much courtlier than the last. 

“You honor me with your request, seid. Allow me to accept as a token of piety toward your People. You serve a sacred duty. I am pleased to help all that I can.” He reaches toward Order with both hands before stopping himself. “May I touch you?” he asks her.

Her green eyes seem to assess Dirthamen before giving him a formal nod. His brother’s hands come to rest on either side of her face. The touch is gentle, and he sees color spread across her cheeks. He quite enjoys the look on her.

“Close your eyes, daughter of Björn,” Dirthamen says softly. His dark hair slips from his shoulder like a silk veil as he lowers his head.

Order does as he asks, a small line forming between her brows.

“Good. Breathe out, slowly—yes, like that. Allow your magic to draw towards me.” His voice lowers, his words a hypnotic hum on the air. “Reach for me,” he says. “Feel my own.”

He can feel her magic as it swells through the room; tendrils of warm unquelled desire, reaching to know, to touch with curiosity. The feeling grows as Dirthamen’s magic rises to meet her own. It swirls in a heady blend of intrigue, each eager to explore the other. 

Sudden heat floods the air. Solas watches his brother lean forward, resting his forehead against hers, lips parting just inches from her own.

“Your seidr is strong,” he murmurs.

Brief anger seizes him. He silences it quickly, reminding himself it is not proper to be possessive. This is why they have come.

“Breathe in, seid. Draw from me.” The air seems to blanch with violet color, drifting from Dirthamen’s lips as he speaks. “Take all that you need.”

He watches as she draws Dirthamen in, her soft lips parting, chest rising in a lingering swell beneath her armor. The air swirls thickly as his magic seats inside of her. Without warning Order gasps. Dirthamen pulls away from her, his golden eyes flashing open.

Order’s features twist with pain. She grabs her left hand and pulls it to her chest. Solas catches her as her legs nearly buckle.

“No,” she gasps.

He pulls her to him, searching for a wound to heal. Her expression is sharp, desperate- _pleading_. Something frantic claws at his heart. Green light flashes from her open palm and his eyes widen.

He looks to Dirthamen. His brother turns away from him without a word. Order clenches her hand and the light seems to die. Her green eyes well with tears.

“Are you alright?”

She pulls away from him sharply, as though he has just struck her.

Suddenly Solas is greeted by a feeling he has never felt before. It is fresh, gnashing and clawing at his heart. It is fed by the way she is looking at him now. Full of hurt. Full of _betrayal_. He does not understand why, but in that moment, he feels shame.

Without a word Order starts toward the chamber doors. He calls after her but she does not turn. He feels his ears lower.

“Let her go.”

Solas looks to his brother.

“She is injured,” he says fiercely. “She should not wander alone.”

Dirthamen bows his head. “The pain she feels is residual. Her body must compensate for the loss of her hand by rebuilding it from memory. If the memory of its loss is painful, then she shall feel its pain. It is not something you can mend.”

Solas recoils at his words. When Dirthamen turns to face him, there are tears in his brother’s eyes.

“Then you know,” he steps forward. “You know the world she has come from.”

Dirthamen gazes toward one of the gold painted windows. “I know her core memory. The key which unlocks all of the others.”

He stops at that. Solas reaches forward and takes his brother’s face in his hands, drawing his gaze. Dirthamen exhales softly at his touch.

“Will you not tell me?” Solas pleads.

Dirthamen’s warm eyes search his in silence. His lips part, and tears spill onto his cheeks.

“ _Enough_!”

A voice breaks the silence from beyond the chambers. Solas recognizes it the moment it comes.

Dirthamen is at his shoulder as he starts toward the chamber hall, pulling the doors open in a single, swift motion. They part just as Order sends the back of her hand across Falon’Din’s cheek. His head turns with the force, but he does not relent, keeping her pinned against the towering rear window. The mage’s laughter echoes through the corridor.

“Brother!”

Dirthamen’s voice snaps like the tail end of a whip. The elf turns, his long blonde hair kept smoothly down the back of his white tunic. His yellow eyes seek Solas like a smoldering arrow. The smile already present on his face grows wide.

“I can smell you on her, _brother_ ,” he says sharply. “You did not tell us you brought your own toy to play with.”

He turns back to her, one hand still braced against the stained-glass as his other slides along her waist.

“I do not like to share. But for such an exquisite creature…perhaps I will not mind.” Falon’Din leans over her. His long fingers brush softly against her cheek. “As long as it is my mark her face shall bear.”

Solas renders a low growl. He takes the elf by the shoulder and forces him back against the colorful glass window, barring his arm across the mage’s chest.

“She is _not_ to share.”

Falon’Din’s laughter grows.

“Brother, please. I beg you, show respect. She is _seid_ ,” Dirthamen pleads, taking Order by the hand to pull her away from the window.

Falon’Din’s eyes track her like a prowling animal as she goes.

“Does she worship you, Pride? Does her voice sing your name in praise when you bed her?” His eyes smolder as they turn to him. “She must, how readily she comes to you. You must bed her well, _wolf_. I wonder how much coin her father will take for her.”

Solas reaches forward, grabbing Falon’Din by the jaw. Rage rises in him like an unfed animal. His hand squeezes until the mage’s smile faulters.

“She will never serve you.”

Dirthamen’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“Leave us,” he says carefully.

Solas does not take his eyes from Falon’Din. He tightens his grip, jaw fluttering. Falon’Din grunts in pain.

“ _Solas_.”

His free hand is taken by another.

“We must go. My brother is waiting.”

Order pulls at him. He feels his anger quell. Her voice feeds the beast that creeps forward, hungry for retaliation. He looks down at her. The painted colors of the window rest softly on her graceful features.

“Take me home,” she says.

The ghost of tears still linger in her eyes. The image sends fresh pain through his heart. Slowly he releases Falon’Din, allowing her to draw him away from the window.

“I would be careful if I were you, _brother_ ,” Falon’Din calls after him as he follows her down the hall. “The forest of the north is wide and full of danger. What a shame it would be for the daughter of Björn to vanish it its midst, wandering so close to the forest’s edge as she does. I wonder if he would blame the _Sköll_.”

Anger flares at his words. To the allusion that he would follow her— _has_ followed her. Order’s hand squeezes his tightly, her grip almost painful.

“Don’t,” she says.

Her sharp gaze is fixed ahead. He cannot read her, a fact he often admires, but only serves to pain him in the moment. He sees her jaw flutter.

They exit through the corridor doors and back into the grand hall of the temple. Guest chatter quells once more as nobles crane their heads to watch him. He says nothing as they descend the front steps, remaining silent as they reach the gate of temple, guarding the eluvian just beyond. They pass through together and come to stand on the main road.

He turns to face her.

She is wound tight; shoulders stiff, hands clenched, bearing her pain in utter silence.

 _Selfish_ , he tells himself. He had wanted to mend her—wanted to _help_. But more than anything he wanted her to remember him; here, now. The nights they had spent under the stars, the secrets they shared, past wounds laid bare lying undressed beside a low campfire. He wanted to show her he was not the _Liar Wolf_ of the other world.

It had been pride, not wisdom, that had guided him to help her. Each day it seems harder for him to know the difference. The thought fills him with such sadness he finds he cannot look at her.

“Forgive me,” he says softly, casting his gaze aside. “It seems my wisdom has failed me.”

Her hand comes to rest over his heart. He looks to her, her eyes glittering in the midday sun.

“You are wise, my heart. Do not apologize.”

Her hand lightly touches his cheek before she pulls away. He stops her, taking her hand tenderly between both of his. His thumb softly stokes the back of her fingers.

“I will do better,” he tells her then. “I…” He gazes down at her left hand in his. “I have hurt you. I know that. Even if you will not tell me how. I feel the shame of it whenever you look at me. Perhaps if you were to tell me what I’ve done, it will change things, make them easier for you. Perhaps it will stop me from-”

Order squeezes his hand gently.

“It will make no difference, my heart. The thread has already been spun. It is _örlög_. Fate. It is not for you to decide. Nor can you stop it.”

Her demeanor softens as her guard slips away. The sight of it stirs an urge within him; the urge to protect her, to guard her from whatever devil haunts her every look of pain, every moment of lost sleep. He knows then what he must do.

He pulls her to him, wrapping his arms around her tightly. His chin comes to rest on the top of her head as he gazes out at the road ahead.

“Then you must allow me one thing,” he says softly.

Order lingers in his arms a moment before pulling away. He gazes down at her, his mind resolute in his decision. Her brows dive together in a frown. 

“What is it?”

Solas takes her hand as he leads her off the main path. He can see the outskirts of the forest through an eluvian just ahead. Order follows after him as he leads her in silence. He is not certain what she will say; whether she will reject him or receive him gladly. But he knows with certainty that he must try.

He does not speak until they are well passed the line of the northern forest. Once the light of Arlathan has vanished she pulls him to a stop. He looks down at her.

“You are being secretive?” she asks humorously. “After what your brother has done to me?”

Heat spreads across his face. The memory seizes him, accompanied by the anger it had brought, seeing him hold her so close, watching his gift pass from his lips and through hers. Without warning Solas takes a step forward. His shadow falls over her through the dappled sunlight above the canopy.

Her magic reaches toward him in question. He accepts it readily, feeling it coil around him, seeking wordless answers. Suddenly her cheeks turn a spectacular shade of pink.

“ _Oh_ ,” she says softly.

She backs away from him, as though his desire makes her feel bare. She does not get far before she is stopped against the base of a tree. His hands do not touch, coming to rest on either side of her. Bark crackles quietly in protest as his grip tightens. Birds flutter above them in the shadows of the canopy.

Order’s breath skates softly across his skin. He feels her power rise to meet his, intoxicating and relentless. His swells in response. The color in her face deepens. He can see in her eyes that she will take him. That he can do this for her—at least this.

“Do you want it?” he murmurs in her ear, his voice dark and low.

“ _Yes_.”

She does not hesitate. He can feel her desire to reach out and touch him. Brief anger flashes as he remembers his brother yet again. How he had held her so close to him. His grip tightens against the sinewy bark, face hovering over hers as though he might nestle against her forehead, the way his brother had done. At the last second he diverts and brings his lips against the side of her throat. His teeth graze softly along her flesh.

“Then take it,” he says.

Heat spreads to his face as she latches on. He revels in the feeling, the way she seems to drink him in, pulling hard at his source. The sensation makes him heady. He can feel the encroaching presence of spirits as they gather in the trees to watch.

“I love you,” she whispers suddenly.

Fire burns through his heart. He nearly _groans_ , taking her face in his hands and bringing her lips to his. He kisses her as the swell of magic meets its peak. The feeling of his power takes seat inside of her, becoming a part of her, now and forever. His tongue sweeps softly against hers until he fears he might lose himself.

He pulls back, resting his forehead to hers.

“Now you may outrun the _Liar Wolf_ ,” he says softly.

Order lifts her hand to rest on his, now stroking the side of her cheek.

“Sköll!”

Solas turns with an abraded growl. He sees a man coming toward them. _A man_ , not an elf, the scent of seidr growing thick in the air. His shoulders adorn the fur mantle of a bear, hair slicked back in several elaborate braids.

He feels Order shift behind him, trying to see over his shoulder.

“Who is it?” she asks.

Solas releases her, taking a step away as he turns, coming face to face with the god.

“Your father,” he says grimly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late upload. But I have a big ol' suprise for everyone next week! Thanks again for being so patient. I'm a perfectionist, if nothing else.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan must face the future, and fulfill her duty  
> (Some sad warning)

“Three days I have been here, Sköll. _Three_. And already I find you sniffing around my stronghold, chasing after my daughter like some untrained _hound_.”

Order pulls her arm from Thor’s grip with little effort. He is hauling her away from Solas at increasing speed.

“Father, please.”

She is elated to see him. It feels like centuries since he has last visited the Alfheim. But _gods_ he can be grating. Her father looks down at her with an indignant strain of awe.

“Do you know how I learned of your whereabouts, my daughter? From a line of sentinels set to wage war on Arlathan, telling me my child has been taken from the city by Loki’s half-breed. My brother will mock me for this to no end.”

Solas’ dark laughter fills the air. Her eyes flash as she looks to him.

“Is it truly your daughter’s safety you are so concerned with, or your own wounded pride?” he asks.

Solas is watching her father with a haughty, calculated smirk. His blue eyes are sharp in the shadows of the forest. Thor places his hand on the hilt of the hammer attached to his belt.

“Is it _you_ who wishes to accuse _me_ of pride? The servant rejected by his own master for flying too close to the sun? Slaying an ancient one may have granted you its power but it does not grant you godhood, sun-chaser. Your wisdom fails you.”

“Stop, _stop_! That is enough.”

Order turns to face her father. She feels anger flare at his words. They are not simply angry—they are, as expected, _grating_.

“He has come here to help me,” she says firmly. “I sustained an injury, and he has done everything in his power to mend it. And he did not simply _slay an ancient one_ —he rid us of Fenrir. He is our ally. Not our enemy.”

Her father’s looks down at her as though she has only just appeared. Suddenly his brows twist together.

“An injury?” he says. His vibrant eyes set about inspecting her closely. “Are you still hurt?”

“No,” Solas cuts in flatly. “You are welcome.”

The Björn's eyes dart to him before returning to her. His gaze becomes tender. Her heart warms as he tucks the hair behind her ear.

“My daughter,” he says softly. “Why did you not come to me?”

“I did not wish to worry you.”

She had trusted her brother’s intuition on the matter. Order could only imagine how he would have reacted seeing her in the care of the Sköll _and_ injured.

Thor pats the back of her head in a gesture that reminds her quite a lot of her brother.

“Will you and Sacrifice not return with me to Asgard? Your grandfather wishes to make a place for you there. And Loki makes a headache of himself asking after you so often.” Her father’s eyes suddenly narrow in look of accusation. “Though I know his vulture watches over you quite closely. He only mocks me by pretending to hide it.”

Order laughs, and her father seems to deflate in some manner of defeat. Almost in answer she hears a bird’s wings flap overhead. The sound is close, drawing her gaze to the treetops. Solas curses aloud.

“He has followed us.”

It is not a vulture she sees, but an owl, roosting low in the branches of a redwood. Thor follows her gaze just as the owl swoops down, cutting a line between Solas and herself. When it lands it dawns upwards, shedding its wings, grey wisps fleeting on the air as Falon’Din appears in its place.

She feels something crop up inside of her—a sudden rage, not at him, but at herself for not thinking he would follow them. The feeling is animal and somewhat difficult to quell.

The elf folds his hands behind him in a mock gesture of civility.

“Greetings,” he directs his words squarely at her father. “I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance. My brother has spoken highly of the Björn.”

Falon’Din leans forward in bow, a lock of his long blonde hair slipping forward off his shoulder. Solas unsheathes the weapon at his back. He extends the thing with one arm, aiming the long blade at the mage in a single, deft motion.

“You will leave here,” he says. “ _Now_.”

Falon’Din gives Solas a sidelong glance. The look is deeply unsettling on him. He straightens himself.

“Forgive me if I have startled you.” His golden eyes move back to her father. “I come only to extend to you a proposition, seid King. Your daughter’s visit to my brother’s home in Arlathan has left me rather afflicted with adoration. She is clever, and quite strong.”

Falon’Din smiles at her a little too sweetly. She can still see the slight red sting of her backhand on his cheek.

“I have come to offer proper dowry and a place for her in my temple. And perhaps more, should you request it.”

Solas does not take his eyes from Falon’Din, gripping the weapon in his hand with white knuckles. Order’s nose wrinkles in disgust. Her father lays a hand on her shoulder.

“Dowry is not the tradition of our people. Unwilling brides make maimed husbands. Should you wish for my daughter’s hand she must wish for yours in return. Judging by your manner of arrival, and seeing that it is the Sköll who accompanies her and not an _owl_ , I will guess that is not the case.”

Her father’s voice is thunderous on the thin air. Falon’Din’s smile sours.

“I see,” he says in a manner of displeasure. “Then allow me to apologize in advance.”

Magic cracks through the air as Solas sends a barrier around her. Her father pulls the hammer from his belt just as Falon’Din sweeps forward—neither elf nor animal, but a flicker of grey, whipping straight toward her. The sheer force of him knocks her down. Fortunately, the barrier keeps him from successfully taking her away.

The sky splits with a flash of lightning. Beneath the crack of thunder comes a deep, bristling growl.

Order rolls over, fingers digging into the fresh leaves and damp soil. Something cold presses to her palm. She looks down, noticing the bright glint of metal in the sun. Her hand takes hold and she pulls it free from the dirt.

Red. Brilliant red, cutting the air with a sharp, broken hum.

 _The idol_.

She cries out as pain shoots like hot prod through her arm. The feeling is deep, burying itself in her bones. The clash of steel rings through the air. She looks up to see Solas draw a line of blood along Falon’Din’s white tunic. The mage howls, vanishing in a plume of grey smoke.

Solas turns to her. His face is beautiful in the dappled sunlight of the trees. Then he is gone.

Light vanishes. Darkness envelopes around her, swarming in on all sides, and her eyes widen in a blind attempt to see. The sound of her breath quickens in the air. There are no other sounds; no smells, no sensation. It is blackness, inky as the waters of All-Worlds, void and nothing.

She feels the idol in her hand vanish. She looks ahead, searching blindly until light meets her eyes. It is faint, distant, but present and unmistakably red. _There_.

She climbs to her feet and takes off in its direction. The light grows as she draws near. It seems to hover in the darkness. Several more steps, and she sees it move. It is no longer lying on its side, but upright, as if someone is turning it in hand. The shape of fingers take form on the hilt. By then she is close. Close enough to look up and see who it is that holds the dagger.

_No._

In the darkness she can see him. Black lines mar his graceful features, bearing the mark of the taint like a god’s blessing on his face. _Not him,_ she thinks. _Gods, please, not him._

Solas looks down at her. His face is void, head craning as his gaze roams hers. She cannot see where he ends and the darkness begins, as though each of them are equal parts. As though they are one. His eyes have lost the battle against the color of red lyrium, taken over by the glow of the idol in his hand.

Wrong. This is wrong. She has taken the idol first. He cannot have it. This cannot be his future.

She reaches forward, taking the hilt of the dagger in her hand. The idol slips easily from his fingers. In the same moment the darkness vanishes. The sky is awash with heavy storm clouds and the ground turns to ash at her feet. She can smell fire and blood in the air, voices screaming beneath the low roll of distant thunder.

A heavy weight falls over her. She stumbles backwards, bracing against the force as Solas collapses in her arms. She tries to hold him upright but he quickly slips from her grasp.

He lets out a quiet whimper as he falls. She falls with him, both of them landing on their knees in the wet soot. His long fingers clutch to his chest as blood surges between the broken pieces of his armor. He looks up at her.

His face is untainted, pained and drained of color. Fear washes through her as tears blind her vision. _The Din’anshiral_ , she thinks. This is his future. A path of only death. The path he now walks without the idol.

Solas reaches forward, his hand resting gently along the side of her neck.

“Forgive me,” he says weakly.

His blood lingers like a ghost on her skin as he hand slips away, his blue eyes lifting toward the sky, until he stares at nothing. A sob escapes her. She leans forward, holding him against her heart.

“Not this,” she pleads. “Not this, I do not choose this.”

Darkness comes as she buries her face against his neck. His skin clings to the spirit of warm life.

“This is not order. This is…this is the end.”

Something in her grows. Anger, fed by loss and pain, swelling with the knowledge of fate. The paths laid before her are bare. To let him die, or lose him to corruption. To watch the world be swallowed by either darkness or fire. But to let it all end.

 _No_.

The word pushes back with sudden urgency, clawing, gnashing, seizing her like a demon. This world will not end. She will not allow it. She will not lose _him_.

Light fades around her and the smell of blood thins in the air. Solas vanishes from her grasp, leaving her to kneel alone in the darkness. There must be something else. Something powerful enough to stop the Evanuris without destroying this world. Something that sees and knows, something that can be told when to stop, able to weaken the gods enough for her to strike.

A living creature. Not a hero, nor a champion, but a legend. A godslayer.

Darkness crashes around her like waves through a broken dam. She feels the air constrict in her lungs. The water swirls, dark and viscous, filled with millions of voices—voices which speak to her, screaming, laughing, crying; each of them worlds within themselves. Her head goes under and panic mounts as she loses sight of the surface. Perhaps there is none.

She feels her heart pound. Her eyes strain against the burning waters but can find no direction. There is only darkness. Her lungs begin to ache. Bubbles swirl around her on all sides, making it impossible to see. A sound is born overhead- a sharp cry, howling, piercing the darkness. She recognizes the sound the moment it comes.

The wolves’ cry grows louder, leading her forward, her ears ringing with the wild chorus. Seconds later her head breaks the surface. Light washes over her. She takes in a desperate breath and feels the cold presence of snow on her skin.

“ _Seid_.”

Her name swirls in the air as she rolls onto her back, lungs heaving.

“Seid, can you hear me?”

Something sharp jabs at her side. Lavellan reaches into her pocket, pulling out the green amulet as it continues its low hum. She laughs.

“ _Solas_.”

Flakes of snow fall from the sky, landing in soft kisses on her nose and cheeks.

“Are you hurt?”

His voice comes quickly. It is hoarse and deep, abused from apparent neglect. She opens her mouth to speak but is stopped by a rather loud thud.

“Fenedhis, what is _that_?”

Lavellan scrambles upright. The ground at her feet moves, rippling like the surface of deep waters. Something has extended from the edge. It rests on the snow, long and sharp, covered with the thick, dark material of the All-Worlds. _A hand._

Another rises from the waters, reaching high, coming to land on the ground with a jolting thud. Lavellan shrinks back in horror.

“Seid? _Where are you_?”

Solas’ words grow hard with desperation. She does not speak. She cannot. All she can do is scramble backwards as the waters part and something sharp crowns from the surface. It is curved, double pointed. _Horns_. A head rises, dawned with long, wet, impossibly dark hair, it’s face in a cast of dark matter. Its eyes open to greet the light.

_Red_. Red as blood, red as lyrium, red as the fire that burns deep within the core of the underworld.

In an instant the creature is climbing to its feet. Steam wisps from its body as it stares down at her, craning its head, revealing one short, sharp ear beneath its hair.

“Who has woken me from the Soul Cairn with such haste?”’

When they speak their voice is exacting, revealing a set of frighteningly sharp teeth.

“You are…what are you?” Lavellan asks breathlessly.

 _Godslayer._ The word echoes in her head over and over, screaming, speaking in a thousand different tongues.

The amulet in her hand goes cold.

The elf flicks the cloak from her shoulders in a rather violent gesture, drawing a short sword from one of the sheaths on her belt. She points the sword straight at Lavellan.

“I do not answer your questions, _light elf_ , until you have answered mine.”

Lavellan does not shrink from the blade, gazing up at the elf with a sharp expression.

“I am the only one here, _shem_. Would you not assume it was I who woke you?”

She hurls the insult rather flippantly. She doesn’t know what light elf means. But by the tone of it, it is anything but a compliment to the stranger.

“I?” The stranger lets out a deep, unnerving laugh. “Is that what I shall call you? _I_? Would a name not be more suitable?”

The elf’s blade still hovers close to her face. Lavellan rises to her feet, her clothes wet and stiff from the snow.

“A name is relative, and sometimes difficult to come by,” she says coldly. “It is not always so simple.”

The elf lifts her blade to Lavellan’s cheek, bloodied eyes narrowing as she turns her face for inspection.

“You have the tongue of a Khajiit,” the stranger muses.

She lets the blade linger a moment before pulling it away and slipping it back into its sheath.

“What business would a light elf have to call me here? To…to—where are we?” The elf gazes around them at the snow peaked mountains. “The Throat of the World?

Lavellan frowns. “Thedas,” she corrects.

The elf cranes her head, eyes skimming her up and down, making her feel small in the face of such a lean, towering creature. “Foreign land? Perhaps that would explain why you look so odd.”

“Odd?” Lavellan asks indignantly.

Without warning the elf reaches forward and tugs tightly at one of her ears. The lack of personal space is surprising to her. A fact the elf seems to notice, and enjoy far too deeply.

“Your ears are very long,” she says, flashing her a cutting smile. “You look like a rabbit. Perhaps that is what I shall call you.”

Her left hand curls into a fist. Lavellan fights the urge to step back, unwilling to show the stranger fear. 

“ _Lavellan_ ,” she says a little too irately. “My people call me the Inquisitor. _That_ is my business for calling you.”

The stranger takes a prowling step forward. Her sharp fingers remain on the hilt of her left sword.

“You must be powerful. I have never had a voice reach me from my resting place before.” Her viscous eyes flash a little madly, smile growing. “Are you Daedra, _Inquisitor_? Do you wish to do battle? It has been long since a god last challenged me to a fight.”

Lavellan feels a small burst of adrenaline pulse through her.

“Then it is true,” she says. “You have fought gods. Can you kill them?”

The elf laughs, the sound low and creeping.

“Indeed I can, rabbit. Is that why you have called me? You wish to kill a god?”

There is something in the way the stranger speaks—eyes gleaming, hand tightening on her sword, as though the request brings her _pleasure_. She knows then that the All-Worlds have heard her plea. That this stranger is the legend she has called for.

“Not one,” she says then.

The elf’s eyes blaze. “How many?”

“ _Many_.” Her voice is bloodless and grim. “Perhaps all, should they refuse surrender.”

Lavellan sees the corners of her pale lips twitch with the beginning of a sneer.

“You speak of extermination. Maybe you are no rabbit at all.” The stranger’s gaze sharpens gleefully. “Are you certain you know what you are asking?”

Lavellan lifts her head.

“More than certain. My people depend on it— _this_ _world_ depends on it. I will not fail.”

The stranger croaks out a long, reckoning, “ _Ah_.”

“It is always something of the sort,” she says with a sneer. “The Daedra’s hunger for power is an endless source of entertainment for ones like you and I. I must admit, _Inquisitor,_ I have not fought for an honorable cause in quite some time. I may not be the hero you are looking for.”

Lavellan squeezes the amulet in her hand. The memory of Solas still remains fresh, branded with the scent of ash on the air, the warmth of his blood soaking through her tunic, her skin, his last words; _“Forgive me.”_

“I do not need a hero,” she says then. “I need a godslayer.”

The stranger reclines her head as her sneer grows to a grin.

“Very well,” she says. “Though my people call me Dovakiin.”

She feels something settle over her as the stranger speaks. For the first time in years, Lavellan realizes she feels hope. She gazes down at the amulet in her left hand. Her heart aches at the sight. Fresh pain flutters in her arm. Suddenly she remembers— _the idol_.

She takes a step back, eyes scanning the ground, seeing nothing but the untouched terrain of snow. _Gone_. In that same moment a rumble takes the sky.

“Now, what is that?”

The stranger gazes overhead. Light bursts free in a wave through the clouds. Colors of green and blue swirl in the air as they burn across the horizon. A pang of realization hits her.

“It is falling,” she says quietly.

The sky rumbles softly like slow rolling thunder. Beneath her the ground trembles, the true testament of his power, the will of a god, falling before her very eyes. Tears swirl as she watches the colors of the veil spread across the horizon. Wind comes, sweeping over the snow-covered hill, kicking up the smell of ice and frozen stone.

She turns her face to the cold air as it sweeps over her. A shape begins to rise above the mountain peaks, and all at once she realizes where they are. They are at the eastern passage of the Frostback Mountains. And just beyond…

“ _Skyhold_ ,” she says suddenly.

Lavellan turns to the stranger still gazing at that sky. Her viscous red eyes scan the burning veil as though she has seen such things a thousand times before. Perhaps she has. The stranger’s certainty fills her with a stronger sense of hope. To watch the sky fall without fear meant that the creature would perhaps fear nothing. A useful ally indeed.

“We must find shelter,” Lavellan says then, glancing once more to the sky before starting toward the rising shape of the stronghold. “It will not be safe out here.”

She has little time to learn how effective this _Dovakiin_ will be against the Evanuris. To do so she must find Solas. The thought makes her stomach flutter. It has been long since she has seen him last. At least in this world. She does not know what she will say to him, least of all when he asks her where the idol has gone. She imagines _missing_ will not be a popular answer with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hun Kaal Zoor, bitches. Lavellan knows the Call of Valor. A few notes:  
> The Alfheim: First realm, home of the light elves in Norse Mythology  
> Asgard: Third realm, home of the gods (the Aesir)  
> Mythology also names one of Loki's birds as a vulture. Hope everyone enjoyed!


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas finds...solace in a familiar face, and meets a strange new one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I don't know how this chapter became NSFW

Solas gazes out at the horizon, watching crows flock to the grey sky. The sound of her voice still rings clear in his head.

 _Alive_ , he tells himself. She is alive.

The crows will move swiftly. They will find her. They had done so for Leliana many times.

Magic rumbles low in the air as the colors of the veil swell and crash, slipping down in a death rattle. He is weary, but even so he can sense his power surge. The feeling is old, leaving his heart to ache in its wake, reminding him of all it has cost.

His eyes close as he draws in the scent of the cold wind. Soon the air will be alight with the hum of magic and living spirits. Soon this place will be _home_. At least for a moment. Lately it seems a moment is all he ever has.

He turns his head, glancing back at the darkened bedroom. The look of it is foreign in the absence of firelight. He had grown so used to its warmth; the swirl of soft blankets left ruffled on the bed, Lavellan’s perfume of lavender and embrium dancing in the air, mixing with the sweet scent of paint still clinging to his hands. But now those things are left to ruin, crumbling, choked out in dust and memories that weigh on him heavily.

He lifts his gaze to the sky, hands resting tenderly on the balcony’s rail. He is not certain why he has returned here. Sentiment, most likely. It is where he had raised the veil. It only seems fitting it should be where he watches it fall. But the emptiness of it, the void silence—it does not fill him with the warmth he so longs for.

His hand gives the amulet another tight squeeze and it warms in his fingers as he waits, hoping. She had been there. Just moments ago, she had been…

“Solas?”

Her voice fills the air, clear as Chantry bells on a service morning. He looks down at the amulet. In that same moment he realizes it is cold. Solas turns.

Magic crackles in the air like lightning. It floods the room with colorful light, sending shadows across her face as she stands in bedroom. He stops himself from taking a step forward. She is hesitant. He can see in her eyes she expects to disappear, to leave her here to watch the sky fall alone.

“Are how harmed?” he asks.

He wishes desperately to take her into his arms. To touch her for the first time in what could only be an eternity. But he does not think it will be fair to. Not after what he has done.

She shakes her head. Her face is worn with a look he has never seen before, green eyes glittering in the growing light of the veil.

“I am alright.” The fingers of her left hand curl inward in an absent gesture. A habit of pain, perhaps. “Will you stay?”

The question tears at the sore edges of his heart. He wants nothing more than to tell her yes. But that would be a selfish answer, one which would ignore his duty. He does his best to train himself.

“Where is the idol?” he says.

The sound of his voice is weary and ragged. Solas hates the question, hates the brief hurt that flashes over her beautiful features as he ignores her own, but their game is not yet finished. The danger of the Evanuris now looms greater than ever. The idol. He _needs_ it.

Lavellan takes a step closer, shadows chasing across her face in a look of deadly severity.

“It is gone,” she says.

His hands clench as he draws them behind his back. He lifts his head, gaining an air of command.

“Then you will tell me where it is.”

Another step towards him.

“Will I?” She gives him a small, disingenuous smile. “It seems to me you are at a disadvantage, Solas. Certainly you are not in the position to make demands.”

Solas quickly quells the anger that flares at her words.

“The idol is the world’s only chance against the Evanuris,” he says, gaze even and cold. “Would you truly rob your people of the chance to live freely, without threat of slavery or conquest?”

“You think me so cruel?”

His expression falters. Her words come sharp as a dagger. Light crackles in the sky and he feels a surge of power rush through him. Her energy pulses in the air. The feeling is… _intoxicating_.

“Perhaps I have a plan of my own, _ma vhenan_ ,” she says the endearment with acidity. “Or do you think me so incompetent as to have nothing? To steal this worlds _only hope_ with the fumbling insight of a mere girl with a crush?”

Rare is the sight of Lavellan angry. But what a sight it is.

Something pushes in him, yearning to push back at her, to wrestle with her in a tangle of words and tactful plays, stretching his strength, and feeling her own rise to meet it. He has missed that. But she is right. Grim and fatalistic as he is, he never thought he would see her win— never thought to _hope_.

“I do not think you incompetent,” he says gravely. “I simply did not expect you to-”

“To what? Fight for you?” Lavellan cuts in. Her gaze becomes pained. “Stop you from corrupting yourself?”

She is close now, close enough that he could reach out and touch her. He nearly does. But his hands tighten behind him in refrain. He fears if he moves he will come undone.

“Did I not promise you?” she says then. “I will not see you fall.”

Her voice softens at her final words. Solas feels his resolve err.

She has said those words more times than he can remember—in restless nights when he had sought her out in the Fade, standing in the dark rooms of Skyhold after he had _sworn_ he would not again fall under the spell of her company. _I will not see you fall._ It is a promise of loyalty, of someone who will not rebuke him, will not turn him away after he has given all that he can.

Something in him aches at her words. They are foreign to him. Mythal had never given him such a promise. Even after she had bound him, after he had let her mark his face, had given her _everything_ , only to be turned away once he had served his purpose; leaving him too powerful to be called a servant, but too prideful to be called _hers_.

The memory pains him—filling him with the sorrow of what he has become. Not Wisdom. But a creature. A demon. _Pride_.

He feels his ears lower.

Sadness fills Lavellan’s gaze as she watches him in silence. Suddenly she has reached toward him, has placed her soft, lithe hand on the side of his face. The air leaves him in a rush. How long he as ached for her touch. He feels her thumb dance along the edge of his lip. Her voice is little more than a whisper when she speaks.

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan_. You are _good_.”

It is more than he can bear. The warmth of her skin, the way she studies him, gazing softly, as though she knows him—as though she knows his heart…

In an instant he has pulled her to him. His arms are around her, and he is burying his face against her neck, shoulders trembling as tears wet her skin, soaking her hair in quiet sobs. She clings to him tightly, whispering the words over and over.

Veil light crackles in the air, rolling like thunder as her magic swells around him. It is reaching for him, overcoming him, tender, _offering_.

“My heart,” she whispers softly.

Her voice is kindness, a living testament to what she offers; not magic, but something much stronger. Something he has so longed to feel since the moment of their first kiss.

He realizes he can feel her love, blooming between them as the veil weakens, powerful, and unmovable, and _ancient_ ; much older than he expected. It fills him with such grace he nearly shivers. Suddenly he is kissing her. His hands are in her hair, guiding her lips to his. Her tears come to join his own as he pushes her back against the door frame. Something in him switches on. He can do nothing then but give in to her.

His thoughts vanish as years of longing overtake him. Her presence possesses him, and he presses into her with need. Their breathing grows, gasping, her lips drawing the air from his, teeth grazing flesh, fingers clawing, caressing, taking.

He says her name in a quiet murmur as her hands find the edges his armor. Pieces fall away in a clamor, fabric tearing as they unfasten buckles and straps, stumbling over each other towards the bed. He lays her down on the ruffled sheets and her breath leaves her in a quiet shiver.

He crawls over her, mouth finding hers with urgency. _She is here_ , his heart revels, the words resounding in his head like the height of an unending song. She breaks his kiss with a soft gasp.

“Will you take me?”

The words come from her in like a spell. He presses against her, already aching to bury inside of her. He feels her power surge through of him, searching for a place to seat itself, making his spirit cry out.

“ _Yes_.”

His voice is deep and ragged. He wants her. Wants every part of her, to let her into him in every way, and give himself to her in return. He groans at the sensation that overtakes him. The feeling of her power is utterly _indomitable_.

Solas takes her with greedy hands. She gasps as he drags her toward him, drawing her legs onto his shoulders, wetting his lips as his head dives between her thighs. The taste of her meets his tongue and he cannot abate a moan. _Gods_ , he has craved it.

Her legs squeeze until he must pry them away, fingers digging into her thighs, her hips arching into him. Solas feels his thoughts buckle under the taste of her warm flesh. His body’s instinct takes hold with sudden urgency. He growls, pushing into her, tasting her with need, as though he is _starving_.

 _Mine_. The words seizes him, grows with each gasp and clawing breath, until she cries his name and the thought is chased away by something much stronger. _My heart_.

Suddenly he is crawling on top of her, seeing her face like the dawn after an endless night, mouth finding hers as he moans her name. She pulls him into her in the same moment.

He is careful, moving slowly until she can take him more deeply—until she is crying his name again and he can push into her fully. He whispers that he loves her, that he is sorry, that he wants her and that he is _hers_. When she releases she clutches to him with unbreakable strength. He can do nothing but spill into her, groaning against her shoulder as he feels himself throb in blessed pleasure.

They lie together afterward, entangled in the silence of the bedroom, listening to the quiet rumble of the world falling beyond the balcony. He strokes her soft hair as his eyes roam the delicate lines of her face. She kisses the scar on his forehead with such tenderness it pulls at his heart. When she draws away he feels the tug of her magic stir within him.

“You have given me a gift,” he says softly.

The feeling is much like his own, clever and insightful, yet intensely forward, brilliant and exacting. Something in it calls with familiarity.

Lavellan gives him a gentle smile. “I thought it was only fair,” she says. Before he can ask she continues rather quickly, “Consider it a consolation prize for a game well played.”

He chuckles, drawing her in for another kiss. Her tongue meets his readily and he feels himself begin to stir against her leg once again. She hums in soft laughter. The sound warms his heart.

“My heart is insatiable,” she says quietly. “But I’m afraid your...dedication must wait. I have left the idol’s replacement unattended downstairs.”

Solas lifts an eyebrow. Lavellan caresses his forehead with a pleasant smile.

“I have missed that,” she murmurs.

Solas takes her hand with a light squeeze. “You have brought the idol’s replacement here?” he asks.

He is not certain whether that should worry him; a fact he does not like. He is not used to being blindsided. A level of unease rises in him at the thought.

“Yes,” Lavellan says, sitting up to scan the room for her clothing. “And I fear what she will do if we leave her alone for too long.”

She begins picking up loose articles of clothes, tossing his onto the bed. He watches as she begins to redress, enjoying the sight of her against the dark clouds beyond the balcony.

“ _Her_?” he asks with a frown.

She makes a small sound of disgust, muttering that she needs to wash, and he sends a low wave of energy to her that freshens the air as it goes. Lavellan gasps, but the sound quickly collapses into a relieved, “ _oh_.”

“Thank you.” She begins working the lace on her leggings. “And yes, to answer your question. I would advise you to approach with caution. There is a dialect barrier, and she is quite…contentious.”

Solas fastens the buckle of his belt, taking his chest plate from the edge of the bed as he approaches her.

“Where did you find her?”

The question seems innocent to him, but he senses her stiffen in response. She leans into him as she begins buckling the sides of his chest plate.

“Pure luck,” she says dismissively.

Solas does not buy her answer for a moment. He hums softly in response, making a mental note to explore the question again later.

She holds her hair back as he slips the mantle over her shoulders and works the chain into place. When he is finished he pulls her back against him to kiss her cheek. Lavellan leans into him, squeezing his hand as it holds to her waist.

“Come,” she says softly. “I will take you to her. We have little time to plan strategy.”

He follows her as she descends the staircase, her graceful fingers playing delicately along the railing. Birds flutter in the passageway as they pass through the door and into the throne room. Lavellan comes to stop on the dais. His features harden with a scowl.

An elf is sitting on the Inquisitor’s throne, leisurely reclined with her legs splayed wide. The look of her is odd. Her skin is ashen, dim and pale, eyes a milky red as they turn to gaze at him. She lifts her head, adorned with a steel wreath quite like Mythal had worn in the days of Arlathan, seating a set of horns near the back of her head.

The elf lets out a hard scoff.

“Do you bring me this Thalmor for sport, rabbit?” the stranger asks.

“Excuse me?” he says.

The elf draws a muddy boot onto the seat of the throne, resting her muscular arm on one knee. She is dangling a short sword from her hand like it weighs nothing. Anger flashes through him at the blatant gesture of disrespect.

“You think yourself worthy to sit on the Inquisitor’s throne?” The side of his nose wrinkles in disdain. “You are a guest in her Hall. You would do well to act like it.”

Lavellan squeezes his forearm in a warning. The elf taps the flat side of her blade against the edge of the chair.

“ _This_ you call a Hall?” she asks.

Her teeth flash with a cutting laugh as she gazes at the ruins around them. He cannot sense her magic. Nor can he see any semblance of the Elvhen light within her. A smell lingers in the air that is old and dangerous; the scent of thick leather against a raging fire—the scent of _dragon_.

He steps forth, blocking her view of Lavellan.

“Why have you come here?”

Magic begins to teem in the edges of his fingers. Certainly this must be a trick—perhaps an Old God already freed from its prison. The elf points the end of her blade straight at him.

“Your pair has called me here, _light elf_. I heard her plea from the Soul Cairn. Rarely am I so moved by the plight of a disembodied voice.”

There is an air of humor to the stranger’s voice. Solas gives her an exacting look of appraisal.

“I have not heard of this place,” he challenges.

The elf stands. He feels his gaze darken.

“Of course you would not,” she says. “Volkihar is rarely so welcoming of _Thalmor_ as your humble guest.”

The stranger does an odd sort of bow in a mock attempt of civility. There is something about her that gnaws at him with warning. She is unperturbed by her obviously unfamiliar surroundings, in the presence of strangers without concern for her safety, which means she is certain in her abilities—so much so that she will sit on the Inquisitor’s throne, and provoke him without fear or care for consequence.

Her behavior is not unlike his had been in the early days of Arlathan. Entitled, provocative and intrepid, as he had known, just as this stranger does now, that he would never meet a power that could stop him. It is the air of unconquerability. The air of _godhood_.

The stranger has begun to pace the top step of the dais, turning the blade in her hand as she gazes around the hall with a thoughtful expression. He looks to Lavellan.

“Are you certain she can offer us the same advantage as the idol?” he presses.

As with all things, Solas is skeptical. He knows nothing of this stranger. Let alone how she has come to Lavellan’s charge. Lavellan gazes up at him with a knowing expression.

“She was given to me by a source I have great faith in. I know that is not evidence—” she takes his arm and turns him to her— “But I am asking you to trust me. When we fight she will be a powerful ally. She has killed such gods before.”

Solas gives her a scolding look at her words, “ _When_ we _fight”_. But that is an argument for a later time.

“How can you be certain?” His voice is challenging, unwavering. “Have you seen her fell a god? I have not heard of her—nor the place she says she has come from. If she is truly so powerful, would her reputation not proceed her?”

Lavellan sighs. There is an edge to her gaze that errs on secretive. She is hiding something from him, and he intends to find out what.

“Because our worlds are not the same, Thalmor. If you can travel as your Lady can, perhaps I will show you. But if you cannot, you will have to simply trust that I would not accept to _battle_ _with gods_ if I did not think I could win.”

Solas gives the stranger an inquisitive frown. He does not understand what she means by _travel_. Not until he looks to Lavellan, and sees her gaze swiftly fleet away. Not until he sees the weary look that settles on her face, a look of burden and secrets, and some small trace of knowledge seems to reach him from behind the weakening veil—words that tell him, _the seid of Arlathan_.

His frown deepens with disbelief.

“The witches of the north,” he says, studying Lavellan as her gaze meets his. “You possess their power?”

Her expression is trained, but something in it pulls at him with familiarity, weighing on his heart. Images dance at the cusps of his mind that he cannot quite discern. Lavellan’s green eyes seem to study him knowingly.

“I did not know until I touched the idol,” she says quietly. “The red lyrium seemed to strengthen my gift enough to travel despite the veil.”

He feels his heart clench. A question creeps forth from the corners of his mind. It is fresh and urgent. Yet somehow he feels he knows it well.

“Where did you travel?” he asks.

Something in him knows she will not answer, even before she shakes her head. Her eyes are weighted as she studies him.

“That does not matter. We only have a short time before the veil falls.” Lavellan’s features train with a look of authority. It reminds him fondly of their days together in the Inquisition. “Are your men prepared for the Evanuris when they arrive?”

Solas bristles at her dismissal. He draws his hands at his back in a symbol of concession. It is a matter they can discuss later. And he fully intends to.

“I have eyes over every square mile to the Waking Sea, ready to alert me when one should appear.” Solas feels a flush of pride at his answer. She will be pleased by his impressive efforts, and the army he has built for himself. Perhaps he will finally have the chance to show her his skill as a commander. “Are your soldiers prepared to defend the public once that time has come?” he asks.

She gives him a canny, but tired smile. “They are. Though I must admit many of your eyes are likewise mine. When the Evanuris come they will alert Cullen to mobilize. Without neglecting their duty to you, of course.”

Solas stiffens, eyes flashing as he looks at her. She gives him a playful smile. He shakes his head, a smile gracing his features for the first time in what feels like an eternity. Of course they are.

“I suppose I should not be surprised. The Dread Inquisitor is cunning, above all.”

Lavellan gazes up at him, her green eyes warm with admiration. Finally she lets out a weighted sigh. “You will need to take the Dovakiin to your men, I assume. She will serve best as an offensive piece on the board. My men can maintain a defensive stance, as planned.”

 _Ah_.

His heart clenches at the reminder of his duty. A pain they both know too well. He reaches forward, taking her hand in both of his, squeezing gently.

“Will you accompany me?” he asks her.

She is here now. He will not see her disappear again—now that he can properly protect her. His hand comes to brush the hair over her ear. He is surprised when she shakes her head.

“I will need to return to base and assure that my inner circle is prepared. I’m sure I have been missing for more than a few days.”

Solas frowns. “Perhaps you should come with me first, so I may travel with you. It is not wise to go alone while the veil falls.”

When Lavellan looks at him, he realizes she will disagree. Reason pushes back at him.

“Then you will take the Dovakiin until I can come for you,” he says, his voice gaining an air of command.

Lavellan’s brows dive together.

“That will take days,” she says, “Time you could have spent orienting the Dovakiin with your battle strategy.”

He gives her a cautioning look.

“You cannot reach your base through the eluvian, and I will not send you to travel alone."

His voice is tactful, trying damn hard to remain calm. Surely she will see his reason.

Lavellan gives him a hardened glance. “My People have brought her here for _you_ , Solas. She will go with you to the stronghold.”

Solas raises a brow in contest. “You will take her,” he says.

“I will _not_.”

The air gives a sudden shift, and he can feel her energy pushing against him, his pushing back in a wrestle of want and willpower. The feeling makes his stomach flutter. _Mythal_ she can be stubborn.

“What hosts, to bicker over your guest like a slab of steak at the Windhelm market. If you are looking for another travel companion, you need only ask.”

The stranger’s voice draws their attention. They look to her in unison. The elf pulls at a chain from around her neck and extends a small blue amulet.

“I will leave this with you, rabbit, and go with your Thalmor, as you wish. Should you need help all you need do is wet the jewel, and aid will find you.”

Ignoring the slight, and her incessant use of the word _rabbit_ , Solas turns to face the elf.

“Ah. How generous of our humble guest,” he says, taking the amulet before Lavellan can reach it. “And how eager she is for us to trust her.”

He feels Lavellan straighten. The elf smiles without a trace of humor. Magic reverberates through his hand as he holds the amulet. It seems to jolt, as if the jewel is a living thing, curled and breathing in his palm. He studies it closely.

“I am not here for your trust, my friend,” the stranger says. “Millennia of ages I have seen come to pass with neither god nor man willing to raise their sword to me. I waste my time in slumber, reliving my greatest moments in a vein hope my world will once again grant me purpose.”

She raises her head. There is a nobility to her features that surprises him.

“Your world intrigues me. I am here for the challenge. Whether you trust me is hardly my interest.”

A loud crack rumbles in the sky, the floor of the stronghold trembling at their feet. Lavellan takes his arm.

“Solas, we do not have time. We must go now.”

His heart clenches at her words, at the look of goodbye in her eyes, as though she knows the words by heart. Solas turns to her. He places the amulet in her palm, closing her fingers around it. Her eyes glitter in the grey light of the window as he takes her face in his hands.

“I will come for you,” he promises her. 

One day. He will give himself one day to order his affairs. Then he will find her. He will show her what it means to hold the promise of the Dread Wolf.

Her soft breath graces his skin and he draws her in for a kiss. It lasts mere seconds before he must pull away. Lavellan lowers her head as she steps back.

“Then I shall await your return,” she says.

Her gaze is weary as she speaks. She does not trust him—a fact he intends to mend. He will show her his fealty, even if he must move armies to do so.

Solas watches her descend the steps of the dais. The elf says nothing as she comes to stand behind him. When he looks to her, she only nods.

“Should you betray her,” Solas says then, “I shall give you the challenge you seek.” He turns, starting toward the stairs to the eluvian tower. “And I will be certain to make it your last.”

He feels the elf following him, though he cannot hear her footsteps. She chuckles in the ensuing silence.

“Do not be so sure you can,” she says.

Solas says nothing. His mind begins to train on the task ahead. He has much to plan for if he is to give Lavellan all that he intends. If she will have him, of course. The promise of the Dread Wolf runs deep. As does his fealty to his heart. He plans to show her that, while he still can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, wonder what he has planned. Certainly it will be entirely uncontroversial, as with all things the Dread Wolf does.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan's past comes comes back to haunt, and help her as the veil falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: unwanted touching and sexual threats. Detailed summary at the end if you need to skip. Take care of yourselves.

Colors drift down from the sky, settling quietly across the snow covered hills. Some flock to her, vivid jewels of pink and green, others seeming to sprout from the ground as they land, taking form before they whisk off to explore the new world.

The ones that stay hum softly as they follow her, prodding at the layers of her magic. A few murmur, speaking the language of the ancients; a language she now knows well. She welcomes the company. Their delicate magic reminds her deeply of home.

The spirits light the snow ahead, guiding her path as she treks the hillside in silence. By now the sun is gone and cold darkness has settled across the foot of the mountains. She finds it rather easy to use magic to keep herself warm; though the fur cloak on her shoulders also lends its aid.

“You do not give up. Even in the dark, in the snow and cold, when you are weary and your feet blister and ache. You never give up.”

Tenacity seems particularly helpful in keeping her spirits up as she goes. Valor on the rare occasion joins in with a quiet but firm, “Shall the veil fall now, you will fight. For your People, and their freedom.”

She hopes that will not be the case. The spirits are young, and she is not certain they will be able to defend themselves should she encounter trouble.

Several yards away she spots a small embankment with a stream just beyond. She recognizes the landmark, relieved to discover she is not but a half day’s journey from Hawke’s estate.

“Perhaps this is a good place to rest. Only a fool would push themselves to exhaustion in the face of impending battle.”

The spirit that speaks orbits around her in a brilliant yellow light. The soft hum it lets off makes some acquaintance with her in a wordless introduction, singing its name softly; _Intellect_.

Lavellan watches the spirit as it prods her, trailing her small company towards the edge of the water for a drink.

“Would it not be wise to continue, in the chance we might avoid having to face a battle alone?” she asks it. “I have allies just beyond the base of the mountain.”

Frankly the idea of fighting at all makes her feel exhausted. She longs for a bed; for soft sheets beside a warm fire, and the sound of rain falling beyond the balcony window. Lavellan sighs as the small spirit rushes at her rather quickly, ricocheting off her dense magic with a small but audible _tink_.

“Battle is enviable, Order,” it says as it gives a dizzying spin, trying desperately to righting itself. “And you are not alone.”

The spirit’s words make gooseflesh rise on her skin. Lavellan casts a look over her shoulder, ears tuning to the sounds of the forest. Wind howls softly through the branches of the trees. For a moment she thinks she hears the flapping of a bird’s wings. But the sound is gone as quickly as it comes. Perhaps it is only referring to the amulet.

Lavellan finishes filling her waterskin and stands, brushing the snow from her knee. She deliberates for a minute before conceding. Her sore shoulders sag a bit.

“A moments rest,” she says quietly. “No more.”

She finds a relatively dry spot in the branches of a fir tree and curls up, taking a heavy swallow of water. The taste is crisp and soothing against the dryness in her throat. When she is finished she pulls the fur mantle around herself and rests her head against the trunk. Several pink lights huddle close around her, humming quietly like a purring house cat.

The presence of the spirits are soothing, and she soon finds her eyes drifting closed. The soft trickle of the stream lulls her thoughts into a state of rest. Her mind begins to wander to images of Hawke’s guest bed, and the warm taste of Fenris’ wine. _Hours_ , she tells herself. _Only hours away_.

A small crackle chases the thought away. Lavellan sits upright against the base of the tree. Her eyes adjust rapidly to the darkness. In the same moment she sees a shape in the shadows ahead.

She is standing in an instant. Magic sparks as her left hand takes the form of a blade. The second it does, pain shoots down her arm with unexpected force. She hisses, lifting her hand, and sees the blade from her arm is blistering red.

Another crackle comes just behind her. She turns swiftly, eyes scanning the trees. _There_. A shape takes form against the backdrop of shadows, caught in the passing lights of spirits. It is tall, pale, distinctly male. Her heart races.

Lavellan pulls herself behind the trunk of the tree. Fight or evade? _Fight or evade?!_ Her mind dances between those two words for several seconds before Intellect whizzes by her, trailing in its wake a small but urgent, “Evade!”

She takes off without another thought. Her left arm aches, but she pushes the feeling away, sprinting several yards before Fade stepping off the trail and into the trees. The movement is swift and dizzying, much more powerful than she is used to. Before she has a chance to gather her bearings something collides with her at full force.

In an instant she is being pinned back against a tree. A hand has taken hold of her jaw, long, sharp fingers digging into her flesh. Something hot and wet presses to her neck, roaming her skin with frantic urgency— _a tongue_. A voice hums low in her ear.

“I can almost taste you, daughter of _Björn._ ”

Panic rises at the sound of the voice. _Not him, not him, **gods** , not him._

Her hands push back against firm shoulders but can find no hold. He presses against her, warm and vibrating. Like a spirit, but stronger. _Much_ stronger.

“You are not real,” she says.

Laughter rises on the cold air.

“Oh but _soon_.”

The voice in her ear is ragged and panting. It is a voice that haunts her, a voice that has hunted her since the early days of Arlathan. Blond hair slips over her like a veil as he leans down, his tongue racing across her mouth, teeth grazing her chin.

“How long I have waited for this moment. I have thought of nothing but you. Centuries in this prison, aching for you, _craving._ ”

Falon’Din takes her hand, drawing her fingers up his thigh in a lingering gesture, laughing madly at her protests. She remembers the blue amulet in her pock. But he will not let go. She cannot reach the jewel. Even if she could, she doubted she would reach the stream in time to activate the spell.

“Get _off_ me!”

Magic burns her fingertips but she cannot push him away. He is not real. He is not _here_. His laughter grows frantic, fingers digging cruelly into her skin.

“Do you not want me? Will you not have me, daughter of Asgard?” His voice trails across her flesh as his mouth finds her ear. “Must you force me to take you?”

The mention of home makes her heart ache. _Father_ , some part of her cries. But he cannot help her. The law of the Aesir forbids it. She must save herself.

Lightning crackles as she calls the element forth. She can feel it brewing in the sky; slower than she is used to, but _powerful_. A bird’s wings flap through the trees. She will have to be quick. The strike will only grant her a brief moment to reach the stream and call for aid.

Falon’Din’s hand tightens over hers, her fingers digging into him as he groans.

“I will please you like no other, my dear fawn. I will make you want me.” His hand pulls at her hair, tongue grazing her ear before his teeth scrape her flesh. “I will fill rivers with bodies, lakes with blood. Order will be _mine_.”

She turns her face away from him. “You are mad!” she cries.

In the same moment light bursts from the sky like a spear. Falon’Din howls as it strikes him head on. But she is too close, and the same bolt greets her with blinding pain. The mage drops her on the ground with a heavy thud.

She gasps, trying to regain her feet, blistering with pain. _Move_ , some part of her commands.

Lavellan takes the amulet from her pocket as she stumbles forward, Fade stepping through the trees in a flurry of snow. She nears the embankment before magic cracks and she is thrown onto her back. The amulet slips from her hand and skitters towards the edge of the stream. Close. But not close enough.

_Damn, damn, damn._

Falon’Din is standing over her, golden eyes burning wildly. The look of him is sheer madness. She sends out a chain of lightning but he quickly deflects it. In an instant he is on her, turning her over, crushing her against his chest. Her feet leave the ground as he lifts her like a ragdoll, leaving her feet to dangle. _Makers_ the Evanuris are tall. She kicks, trying to suck in a breath—she cannot _breathe_.

“You will see, fawn.”

His breath rushes out across her neck, growing fervently as his teeth sink in. She feels fresh blood warm her skin. He groans as he tongue comes to taste it.

“We shall show _your heart_ how a true god beds his consort. I will please you on my throne, before my very court, so he may watch. The gods shall know that Order belongs to me.”

Tears spring to her eyes as her lungs begin to ache. He is getting stronger; becoming _real_. Her blade cannot reach him. She cannot strike him with magic, not while he is _on_ her, not without injuring herself. For the first time, Lavellan realizes she might actually be in trouble.

The air rustles with the sound of churning wind. Large wings rise from the trees as a bird swoops towards them, it’s dark, featherless head low to the ground.

Her heart races with the memory of home. It is not her father, but he is just as powerful.

The vulture’s large talons unlock, turning up snow as they graze the ground. Falon’Din’s face is buried in her neck, too busy to notice as the bird snatches the amulet, soaring upward, carried on the wind as it flies over the stream. She watches it drop the amulet into the water before disappearing into the trees across the clearing.

Water erupts from the embankment with a violent tremor. Ice sprays the side of her face as Falon’Din’s drops her to the ground.

_Air_. She gasps, gripping her sore ribs as she pulls static from the sky. In the same moment she sees something— _someone_ rise from the water with a flurry of mad laughter.

There is no in between time from that moment. There is only Falon’Din’s indignant cry, and the two arrows the creature has loaded into their bow, driving through the god’s apparition with furious speed. Though they do not injure him, they buy her the second she needs.

Light flashes, momentarily blinding, splitting the sky in a deafening thrash as she calls it forth. She feels the ground tremble as the bolt strikes the god. The creature beside her has jumped onto the embankment, still laughing as he fires arrows with unbreakable stride.

Wind whips as Falon’Din sends a flurry of magic toward her. She deflects it quickly, calling another bolt, then another, again and again, the way her father often did, until the sharp scent of ash lifts from the earth, and Falon’Din falls to his knees.

She draws him to her in a cage of static and raises her blade, trembling with the sheer force pulsing through her. It is potent, even stronger than she recalls, intoxicating and difficult to control—to _want_ to control.

The blade has no time to land. Falon’Din’s eyes blaze as she drives the sword forward, his face twisting as he vanishes in a thin cloud of smoke. Lavellan curses. She turns, coming to face the forest. Cold wind howls through the trees.

_Gone_.

The bastard. The _coward_. Her right hand trembles. She clenches it into a fist, listening to the soft whirl of wings on the air.

“It is gone, yes?”

Lavellan turns to face the man still standing on the embankment. His dark hair drips with glittering beads of water. The look of him is _odd_. Which is saying something, for all the things she has seen in her lifetime.

The features of his face are strictly feline—sharp teeth behind long, thin lips, eyes large and brightly colored. His nose, which wrinkles as he takes in the state of his soaked clothes, is short and angular.

“Yes,” she says breathlessly. “But he will be back.”

She sends a spell to the stranger to dry his clothes. He jumps at the unexpected prod, twisting around to examine himself.

“You are quite good,” he purrs.

His voice curls thickly as he speaks; perhaps Antivan, or something much like it.

“And lucky that the Dovakiin is so generous with her Khajiit. This one does not waste arrows for nothing, friend. Though those bastard Daedra do make a worthy cause.”

Lavellan ignores the idle chat, gazing up at the sky. The colors of the veil grow and swell against the dark clouds.

“We must hurry,” she says.

The creature gives her a curious glance. She does not wait for him to agree, exchanging the blade for her left hand and heading off into the trees.

“You are fortunate your bird friend was close by,” the man says, trotting up beside her. “Maybe it should stay close until we reach…wherever it is we are going.”

Lavellan curbs a small smile.

“I would have a harder time convincing him to leave.” Her eyes track the bird as it tails them through the clouds.

He must have been watching the veil closely, to appear so soon after it was weak enough to travel. She imagines he is curious to see what will happen once it falls. Despite her father’s discouragement, she is sure, and no matter the rules of their kind—both things Loki frequently discarded anyway.

“Where this one is from we do not have fighting birds,” the stranger continues as they go. “But we do have an odd devotion to our chickens. Though, maybe they do fight, and this one simply has not seen it. Who can say?”

They begin to regain a small legion of spirits that trail behind them as they go. They seem wary of the new stranger, but he pays them little mind. Lavellan frowns at the fact.

“Are you not curious where you are?” she asks him. “Or where your friend is?”

The stranger’s colorful eyes track Intellect as the spirit orbits him with intrigue.

“Curious certainly, friend. But after thousands of years of waking up in strange places they all start to look the same,” the man grins at her playfully. “As for the Dovakiin, she will come when her travel satchel gets too full. She has given this one to you, so he will stay with you, until that time comes.”

Lavellan gives him an assessing glance.

“Why does she keep you in an amulet?”

The creature cackles. The sound is crackling and quite mischievous.

“Because my friend is too sentimental to let a Khajiit die of old age. Besides, this one is quite good in battle. Irreplaceable, you might say. And a hell of a shot.”

His colorful eyes dance as he watches her. Lavellan frowns.

“Has she bound you?” she asks stiffly.

“You mean hand and foot? No. Your new friend is much too quick for that.” He nudges her with one elbow.

She shoots him a deadpan glance. “I mean your spirit. Are you bound to the amulet against your will?”

His head tilts in a curious look. “Why would she do that?”

Lavellan lets out a small sigh. “Never mind,” she mutters.

Silence graces them for a time as they journey on. She can feel the blisters as they form on her feet, her heels and toes growing raw in the cold. After some time she sees grey light begin to dawn across the sky. The colors of the veil grow rich as they meet the sun.

As they reach the crest of the hill she can see white smoke pouring from a chimney at the base of the mountain. She nearly cries out in relief.

“Mmm, food,” the stranger beside her purrs. His colorful eyes scan the horizon. “And something…”

Before he can finish she feels the ground beneath them quake. The movement is strong enough to make her stumble, and her eyes lift instinctively to the sky. In that same moment she sees the colors of the veil as they go up in flames. Veilfire burns across the sky in a deafening roar, heat boiling down like the last bellowing breath of an ancient dragon.

“That does not look good,” the Khajiit says.

Lavellan grabs him without a word and starts sprinting down the hill.

“We need to get indoors!”

They will not make it. The estate is still half a mile away at least. Without a second thought she skids to a halt, grabbing the man by the collar and pulling him against her.

“What are you—”

“Hold on!” she says. Before he can protest she steps forward, tearing through the Fade.

The stranger gasps. Heat bears down on them, blazing up the back of her armor. A sound breaks free overhead. It is unholy, ancient, moaning like a creature of unimaginable size. Like the doors of the Black City being forced open.

It only takes one step for her to reach the door. The movement is startlingly powerful. Before she can stop she has blown through the door, knocking it open with unexpected force.

“What the _fuck_?”

“Close it! Close it now!”

Voices kick up in ensuing panic. She lands on the floor with an unforgiving thud. A voice cries out in surprise. She feels someone squirm beneath her. At first she thinks it is the Khajiit. But then the voice groans. Hands take her shoulders with surprising strength.

“Inquisitor?”

She sees Cullen lying beneath her on the rug. His eyes are wide with disbelief. She climbs to her feet as someone else pulls her into a backwards embrace.

“You are _alive,_ ” a voice sobs in her ear.

Josephine’s arms are like a vice. Lavellan winces.

“Let her breathe, Josie. Let the woman breathe!”

Dorian all but pries her away from the ambassador before grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her fervently.

“You are mad, you hear me? Mad! Vanishing into thin air only to burst in here like…like—”

“Please stop shaking me I’m going to be sick.”

His eyes widen at the notion of vomit and his hands release her. She sees Cullen standing behind him, gazing at her in worry. Their eyes meet and he takes a step forward.

“We thought you were…” he exhales sharply, then clears his throat. “We thought you would not return.”

Dorian turns on him, giving him a haughty, indignant glare.

“Save your _we_ ’s my friend. I never doubted for a second this mad woman would return. By the Maker, just look at her!”

He whirls to her, arm extended, only to retract in a sudden look of shock.

“My god, what is _that_?”

Lavellan does a half turn until she sees the Khajiit standing beside her. There is a thunderous crack, and the floor beneath them jolts. Air whips through the estate, papers flying in every direction as cabinets topple, sending everyone to the ground. Lavellan feels something tear its way free inside of her. She cries out as heat flashes through her. No, not heat. Magic.

The feeling is overwhelming, making her double forward, gasping as the feeling takes seat inside of her. With it comes so many things. Different images and memories, secrets and hidden knowledge, lives that she has gained and lost, worlds of indescribable beauty. The power that had once been hers. The power of her People. The power of her _father_. It is…too much.

“What’s happening? What are these lights?”

The air begins to hum with the voices of spirits. Footsteps pick up as the others rush through the room.

“Find the maps, quickly!”

“Do not let the candles catch!”

She feels her shoulders tremble. Magic swarms in around her, sweet and delicate. It comforts her, fills her heart, old and familiar as the power of the seid. Tears swirl in her vision as relief takes hold.

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder.

“Lavellan?”

A sob breaks free from inside of her. Cullen pulls her against him and she hides her face in the breastplate of his armor, weeping freely. The room falls silent. She can feel the others watching her, but she does not care. It is a gift. Thousands of years from now his People will speak of this moment with reverence. Of the gift The Dread Wolf has given them. Of how he had been willing to sacrifice himself to give it. He will no longer be a villain. He will be a hero.

Cullen holds her until the tears have stopped. Several spirits huddle near to soothe the pain that now ebbs through her. She pulls away from him.

“Can you hear them?” she asks softly.

She looks at them, their faces mulling with confusion.

“Hear who, Inquisitor?” Cullen finally asks.

“The spirits,” she says.

They glance at one another, each shaking their heads as the do. Leliana turns to her.

“What are they saying?”

She can hear them, soft voices, laughing, crying out in the language of the Elvhen, the language of home. Cullen’s gaze searches hers in question. Lavellan sniffs, laughing softly, her voice joining the chorus of spirits that sing around them.

“They are saying they are free.”

It is unlike anything she has ever heard. She sees Leliana’s eyes glitter.

“I wish I could hear it,” Leliana says.

Cullen offers her his hand as she rises to her feet.

“The others,” she says, “Hawke and the circle. Are they taking citizens to the mountains for refuge?”

“They are. They left the moment the veil appeared.” Cullen’s hand rests gently on her back. “All we do now is wait for word on the Evanuris.”

“Friend, perhaps you should have a look at this.”

She glances up to see the Khajitt standing near one of the windows. Dorian is at his shoulder before she can reach him.

“Oh…oh _shit_ ,” he says.

Lavellan stands on her toes to peer over their shoulders. Behind the glass she sees… she is not exactly certain what she sees. It is a line. A line of elves dressed in uniform—dark elven armor made for battle. They stand unmoving as they surround the estate.

Lavellan turns on her heel and makes her way to the front door. Cullen calls after her but she does not stop. Cold air greets her cheeks and nose as she steps out into the snow. The wind whistles through the silence. She takes several steps before coming to stop.

They are all around them, too many to count. Feet trail after her in the snow as the others gather behind her.

“If we must fight,” Cullen says beneath his breath. “Then we will fight well.”

She hears him unsheathe his sword. In that same moment one of the soldier’s steps from the line. His voice echoes out across the baren snow as he shouts command.

“All those who serve the Inquisitor, stand ready.”

In impeccable unison they draw their swords from each of their sheaths.

“I do not understand,” she hears Leliana say.

Lavellan recognizes the solider that stands forth. He is an agent. An informant for one of her own. Falon does not look at her as he draws his sword. Even so, she can see the traces of smile on his face.

“All those who serve the Lord and Lady, stand guard.”

They raise their swords across their armor as one. Her heart flutters at the sight. In that same moment she watches the soldiers part in unison. She sees him walking towards her, tall as he had been in the days of Arlathan, coming to stand at the head of his men.

“You cannot be serious,” Cullen growls.

Lavellan takes a step forward. “You have returned,” she says in disbelief.

Solas waits for her to approach, standing ready, hands clasped at his back. His dark eyes are brilliant, deep and violet in the morning sun. Gazing down at her, she can see the sadness that lingers just behind them. His ears lower.

“You went back,” he says softly.

She frowns. He takes a step closer.

“You went back for me.” His dark eyes glitter in the sun. “You have given me memories. Of your People, of _you_. It is like waking from a dream. Only this time, I was not alone.”

There is something broken in the way he says the word, _alone_. His hand comes to her cheek. Her skin warms at his touch.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he says softly. “All of that time, you knew. You knew what I would do. You should have killed me when had the chance.”

His words pierce through her, so heavy, so full of sorrow. He holds her face tenderly in the palm of his hand.

“Did I not tell you it was fate?” she says. She can feel the tears that threaten to creep forth. “This world was always mine to decide. Had it been anyone but you, it would have been too easy to let it fall.”

A tear frees itself down his cheek, burning like gold thread in the morning light. His gaze searches hers. The look on his face is so utterly bare she nearly breaks. She feels her heart ache.

“ _Ir abelas, ma vhenan_ ,” he says softly. “For all that I have done.”

Lavellan takes his hand. Her expression trains into something resolute.

“All you have ever done is fight for your People. You tried to save them. And when that did not work, you did not give up, even at the cost of yourself. You are _good_ , Solas _._ ”

She feels the magic swell between them. The sound of it is soft and lyrical.

“I’m sorry, will someone tell us what the hell is going on?”

Dorian’s voice carries over the cold wind. Solas straightens, standing tall, the true glory of Arlathan before her very eyes. Sunlight glitters like a halo behind him. He lifts his gaze to her council, his voice gaining an air of command.

“My army comes to extend their loyalty to the Inquisitor,” he says. “And I come offering a proposal. That we act as one in the ensuing battles to come,” he gazes down at her then, “And perhaps more, if she will have me.”

Her face grows warm at the insinuation.

“You _cannot_ be serious.”

Cullen is trekking toward them through the snow. His nose and cheeks are pink from the cold, blond hair ruffling in the breeze. When he stops he is nearly toe-to-toe with Solas. The commander is forced to look up at him, leaving Lavellan with a thinning resolve not to smile.

“First you break her heart, then you _leave_ , then you _come back_ , only to steal her arm, tell her you are the Great Adversary of her people, and _leave again_. Now you show up with an army, making proposals?”

If anything, she certainly admires the sheer backbone of the man. Yelling at a god in front of his sworn army, sword in hand, contesting his proposal.

“I did not realize you had taken such a person interest in my heart, commander,” Solas says.

Oh, that slight burned him. She can see it on Cullen’s face. The dismissal of him as a rival, as if Solas has never noticed his attempts to court her. The claiming of her, as if she is already his, calling her his heart.

Cullen’s eyes narrow.

“Perhaps not,” he says. “But I have certainly noticed your disinterest, _wolf_.”

Solas is not so easy to tempt. He gives the commander a polite, well-tempered smile.

“Should you wish to contest, Seid’s people have a custom to decide the more suitable mate. I’m certain you know of it. Given you have such an interest in her.”

Her face floods with heat.

“No. Absolutely _not_.”

Gods, it was not a custom, it was a _joke_ —suggested by Loki, no less. She pries Cullen away from Solas and turns him to face her.

“You are my commander, Cullen,” she says. “Joining forces is our best chance to protect the people, and you know this.”

“I will have my men extend passage for you into my stronghold.” Solas does not wait for his approval before he speaks. “In the meantime, I shall be escorting the Inquisitor myself.”

He has that look in his eye—the one that always reminds her of home. Of nights spent beside a low campfire, soft kisses and lingering touches beneath warm furs and a sky full of stars.

Solas extends his hand to her and she does not hesitate to take it. He draws it onto his arm, placing his other over it tenderly. Falon nods to her as they turn to leave.

Solas leans down to murmur in her ear. “Do not think I didn’t see that.”

She curbs a smile, gazing up at him against the sun. She can see vast structures appearing on the horizon as they materialize through the clouds. Suddenly her eyes flash.

“You have not killed the Dovakiin yet, have you?”

Solas chuckles as he looks at her.

“Not yet, my heart. She awaits us at our stronghold. I trust she will be happy to see her friend, once my men have escorted them through the passage.”

Lavellan feels her heart clench at the small word, _our_. His smile tells her his words were intentional. In that moment, perhaps for first time since she can recall, Lavellan does not dread the future that lies ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Falon'Din sets his eyes on Lavellan as the veil weakens, prompting Loki to send aid, and Lavellan discovers the blue amulet holds the Dovakiin's Khajiit. They reach Hawke's estate just as the veil falls. Solas arrives not long after and pledges his army, and himself, to Lavellan, offering his stronghold to the Inquisition.  
> Hope everyone enjoyed.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Lavellan spend some much needed time together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some NSFW

Solas draws the silver brush through her hair, its soft bristles making a quiet, soothing sound in the silence of their chambers. He can feel her watching him through the vanity mirror as she sits in front of him. The low light of the fireplace casts soft shadows across her face. He draws the brush behind one of her long ears, letting her hair fall down the back of her silk nightgown.

“Are you weary, my heart?”

Her voice beckons him to look at her. His heart grows as he meets her gaze. He gives her a soft smile.

“I am happy you are here with me,” he says. “I fear I could not sleep if I tried.”

Solas runs his fingers through her soft hair and begins working the pieces into a braid down her back. She shivers with quiet laughter.

“I feel like I have not slept for eras,” she says.

His laughter joins her own. “Perhaps you have not, _vhenan_. Though I would not guess it. You are as beautiful as the night we first met.”

 _Night_ , he thinks. _Not day_. He remembers it vividly now, replacing that day in Haven with something much older, standing in the forest of Arlathan, watching her get taken by one of June’s snares. When he sees it, thousands more come to greet him. Moments of love and tenderness, of fear and uncertainty, of glory and battle. The memories had come to him the moment the veil had fallen; such sweetness among such terrible pain.

“You do not need to do that,” she says then.

He raises an eyebrow in question, but she is turning to face him before he can speak, settling on her knees in the small, cushioned seat. When she speaks again her words are different. They are not brutish and short, but long and lyrical, the voice of the Elvhenan—the voice of their People.

“Speak to me like this when we are alone. In our tongue, the language of home.” She reaches out and takes his free hand, rising up on her knees. “Speak to me like you did in Arlathan.”

His heart grows at the words rising from her soft lips. Solas sets the brush down on the vanity and takes her face in his hand.

“You are my heart,” he murmurs, pulling the silk braid tenderly down her breast. “I will speak to you a thousand words, in a thousand different languages, if it will please you.”

The language of his People pours easily from his tongue. She takes the front of his shirt and draws him to her. The kiss she gives him is lingering and warm. When she pulls away, he longs for more. Order sighs softly, bringing her forehead to rest against his chest.

“Is it foolish to hope my People will return?” she asks then.

His hand comes to stroke the back of her head.

“That is never a foolish hope,” he tells her.

Solas feels his heart sink at her words. He knows her pain too well. Her People had left after the death of Mythal. Many had fled to other worlds with only a few choosing to remain. He remembers the day they had gone. How he had quarreled with her to leave with them. How angry her father had been when she refused. And what he had done, to ensure his heart would be safe.

He lifts her face with a tender hand. The way she gazes at him fills his heart with sweet affection. A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. He must have made some grave look of displeasure, causing Order to laugh.

“Yes?” she calls.

There is a hesitant pause before the doors open. Falon appears in the doorway. Solas feels his gaze harden as he steps in front of Order.

“My Lord.” The agent bows his head, eyes fleeting swiftly from the sight of the Inquisitor in her nightgown. “My Lady,” he says hesitantly.

“What?” Solas asks.

He feels Order give his arm a light nudge. _Be kind_ , the gesture says.

“Forgive my intrusion, my Lord. The agents wish to pay their respects to you and the Lady Inquisitor, if we may.”

Solas lifts a brow. He glances back at Order. She nods to him, taking up the velvet robe draped on the edge of the vanity.

“Very well,” he says.

Falon steps aside as agents begin filing into the room. Each of them is carrying something; a tray, a cart, an ornate basket, large boxes tied with ribbon. Order twines her arm through his, head resting on his shoulder as they watch the spectacle swell through their chambers. He knows such things make her feel silly. Order never did prize being the center of attention.

“Several of your noble allies have notice the Inquisitor’s absence,” Falon says.

He remains at the door, watching the agents as they leave their gifts beside the sitting area, resting trays on the table and parking food carts beside the hearth. Warm smells begin to build on the air.

“They are curious if she is in the company of Lord Fen’Harel. Shall we send them word of your proposal?”

Solas and Order exchange a glance.

“It could be advantageous to keep my whereabouts a mystery,” she says.

“Advantageous for our agents, certainly. But in the face of battle it may be wise to let them expect a unified front,” Solas says in return. “It could deter some of the lesser Evanuris from mounting attacks, giving us a chance to subdue them outside of the battlefield.”

Order seems to stall for a moment. Something flashes across her face. He frowns.

“Perhaps,” she says. “Though I believe the Evanuris already expect us to be a unified front. They…seem to have ways of keeping eyes on us from the Fade.”

The air grows taut. Solas straightens, turning to face his pair.

“How do you know this?”

Order stands a little taller. Yet her guilt is palpable.

“I encountered a rather powerful entity on my way to Hawke’s estate. He found me quite easily. He must have been tracking me for some time.”

His eyes flash. A potent cocktail of worry and anger rises inside of him.

“And you did not tell me? Who is this entity?” he presses.

A rebellious light flares in her eye. “He was only a projection.”

Darkness encroaches over his features. Solas stands, gaze unwavering. Finally she sighs.

“Falon’Din,” she says.

Anger turns to rage, turns to that feral, clawing need to hunt, to retaliate, to _exact_.

“It seems his time in the Black City has not deterred his focus.” Her hand rests on his arm, fingers squeezing, grounding him in the moment. “He is strong, but he is erratic. He will be easily tempted. Knowing this provides us an advantage. Solas,” her fingers tighten, “Dangle me in front of him, and we will have him in the palm of our hand. He will be useful in luring the others.”

He gives her a disapproving glance. “I will not use you as bait for the Evanuris.”

“You are not using me if I consent,” she says with a canny smile

Solas raises an eyebrow. “You propose a game?”

Her eyes gleam as she cranes her head, gazing up at him. “This one we will play together.”

 _Mythal_ he loves this woman. Solas folds his hands behind him, turning to Falon as more agents file through the door.

“Announce the engagement to our allies. We can discuss a plan in detail tomorrow.” He gazes down at Order. “Tonight I wish not to be disturbed.”

He watches her cheeks flush with color. Centuries have passed, thousands of years, and he will never grow weary of that look. They each thank their guests as they leave, and the room returns to silence. Order turns to gaze at the arrangement of foods and gifts left beside the fire.

“Well, this is…a lot,” she muses. “I had no idea your agents were so fond of you.”

Solas leans down, kissing her soft hair as he murmurs, “Not me, heart. _Us_.”

His hand finds the small of her back and he guides her toward the hearth. He pulls out one of the chairs at the head of the table, inviting her to sit. The moment she steps forward Solas takes her by the waist, drawing her back against him, and taking the seat himself. She laughs as he pulls her into his lap, trailing kisses across her jaw.

“Are you hungry, my love?”

His arm tightens around her waist as he nips her neck. She hums softly.

“Very,” she says.

He reaches forward and lifts a lid from one of the platters. It is arranged neatly with ornate cakes and sweet toppings. He takes a piece of fruit and extends it to her. Her lips part, accepting his offering, her soft tongue running along the pad of his index finger. His body tunes to the sensation.

He takes care to feed her well, pulling food from different trays as she allows him to feed her. Every so often he teases her only to take a piece for himself. Several times he errs and allows frosting or syrup to linger at the corner of her mouth, watching as the thick substance runs down onto her chin, only to pull her in to lick her clean.

She tries to kiss him the next time he does so, but he pulls away. He chuckles as her eyes flair. When she tries to offer him food he takes her wrist, allowing her to slide her fingers into his mouth, licking them clean before drawing her hand away, teeth raking her flesh as it goes.

The look she gives him is purely intoxicating. He offers her a poised smile.

“Would you like to open gifts?” he asks.

He revels in the way she watches him, lips parted, sharp eyes searching for any weakness, any chance he will give in. She lets out a short breath and withdraws herself with a nod. She starts to pull away but he will not allow her, keeping her arm locked in his grasp.

“You need only ask, my heart. I would give you anything you desire if it would please you. All you must do is ask.”

It is a game they have played many times. One she knows well. She knows the word he is searching for.

Order’s eyes dance to his lips. She lets out a sharp breath. He can see she is flustered by his slights and refusals. Order can be quite contentious when she is frustrated. He will take pleasure in driving her to that point—and over its edge.

Order pulls against his grip, testing his strength before narrowing her eyes and giving him a harsh, sardonic, “ _Please_.”

He gives her a soft smile. “Of course, my love.”

They sit together as he hands her gifts from the hearth. Most are for her; rich perfumes and fine fabrics, gowns made of velvet and silk, trimmed in fur. He gets Orlesian paints, rich and vibrant, and bottles of honey wine, sweetened with flowers from the garden. One of the last boxes holds new crests and pendants for each of them to adorn on their mantles.

Order holds up a rather slim fitting gown made of emerald velvet and grey fur. She laughs aloud.

“I don’t think I have worn a dress since the early days of Arlathan,” she says.

Solas chuckles, arm tightening around her waist.

“Oh yes, I recall,” his words trail her neck as he leans down. “When you still wore your father’s crest on your lapel.”

His hand climbs upward, fingers dancing delicately along the top of her left breast, where the pendant once stayed fastened. He can feel her flesh, warm and naked beneath the thin silk garment. Her breath leaves her in a quiet rush. He watches her knees part for him.

Solas smiles, drawing away his touch. She will have to ask first.

“I always wondered why you stopped,” he muses. “Both suited you well.”

Her eyes narrow as she looks up at him.

“Because you and Loki would not stop calling me _princess_.” She leans her head against one of the wings of the chair, dangling a leg from his lap. He watches the slit of her silk nightgown slip away to expose her bare flesh. “I swear it was a game between you two just to drive me mad.”

Solas chuckles low in her ear. She sighs as his hand comes to rest on her thigh. He squeezes lightly, enjoying the way it makes her stiffen.

“I had no idea your proper title offended you so.”

His voice is innocent, but the smile he gives her is wolfish. Her eyes soften as she studies him. When she leans in, he expects it, and does nothing to counter the kiss. He returns the gesture softly. His fingers touch, tracing along her cheek, wandering lower, until her neck rests gently in the palm of his hand.

Her breath hitches and he draws away.

“What will you have of me?” he murmurs.

He watches her tongue come to wet her lips, as if to lick his words from her delicate skin. He sees the light of the game dancing in her eyes. Order does not speak. She seems to gauge him for a moment. Then she leans forward, hands taking his shoulders, pressing him back against the chair.

“I will have you,” she says.

Her mouth takes his as he smiles. Tenacity suits her well. His hand tightens gently on her neck as he pushes her away. But Order does not give, pushing him back. He so loves when she pushes back. When her hands take to him, fingers digging in, soft tongue meeting his as it does now.

He loves bringing her to this point. The point of angry gasps, and urgent grappling’s for control. It meant a struggle. It meant a fight for dominance, and a chance to prove himself as her most worthy mate.

She pushes him back as he tries to rise, keeping him pinned to the chair. _Mine_ , her eyes say, flickering to his lips, roaming lower to his throat, until her mouth is there, licking softly, biting harder, hands finding their way beneath his shirt.

She cannot stop him from pushing back then. From sweeping the empty silver trays from the table and lifting her onto it. The way she fights him is divine. When he overpowers her, it is unholy.

He kisses her until her hands are no longer on his shoulders, trying to rein him for control. Until she is pulling at his clothes, holding him close, legs tightening around his waist. Only then does she say the word he so longs to hear.

“ _Please, my heart_.”

Her voice is strained and wanting. It raises gooseflesh on his neck. She is pressing into him now. And he does not hesitate to claim her.

He pushes the nightgown up around her hips and unties the drawstring of his pants, freeing himself with one hand. The table jolts, dishes rattling as he pushes into her, drawing his name from her lips.

He is careful but he is not tender, taking her with the victory he has earned. When he is certain she will no longer fight he takes her to their bed and lays her among the soft sheets.

He beds her properly then, pride and instinct overcome by something much more powerful. He strips her nightgown away and frees himself from his clothes. His tongue roams the warm skin of her breast as he slides into her with care. Her legs tighten around his waist, pushing him into her full hilt. It seems impossible that she can take him so fully. The sensation makes him shiver. He buries his face in her neck as she moans.

“Do I please you, Inquisitor?”

The title comes from him with reverence, his voice rough and low. He does not doubt himself. But he wants to hear her— _needs_ to hear her say it.

“ _Yes_.”

She does not hesitate. His hand tightens on her waist as he thrusts into her with force.

“Say it.” His lips ride to her ear, teeth tasting her flesh.

She gasps the word “ _Please_ ,” and he knows to slow, to wait until she says what he wants. Her eyes flicker with sudden awareness. Need flares in her as she clenches her legs.

“You please me,” she arches her back, pressing into him. “No other could please me as you do.”

He _groans_. She is seid, the Dread Inquisitor, keeper of this world; and he is _hers_. She has claimed him fully. It is his duty to please her. And as with all things, he will do it well.

The headboard tremors as he drives into her with reward. He holds her tenderly as her breath collapses into short, gasping moans. He can feel her as she releases, pulling him over the edge in the same moment. Warmth overtakes him and he can do nothing but give into her.

They lie together in the ensuing silence. Her eyes flicker with impending sleep as he kisses her face, drawing her into his arms. She buries herself in his chest with a quiet sigh. He smooths her hair as her magic washes them clumsily. She is asleep before he pulls the sheets over them and settles against the pillows.

When he sleeps he dreams of home. Order waits for him at the gates of her People, wrapped in the mantle of Fenrir. They spend their time in the woods of Arlathan, hunting big game and speaking to the spirits that wander to them, swimming naked in the river that runs deep through the heart of the forest.

Soon Order climbs out to lie on the riverbank and watch the vulture circle over them in the trees. He comes to join her, clothing them both in things they might have worn in the days of their People. Several blue lights come to orbit him curiously as he does. He watches more fleet from Order’s open hand as she casts them into the sky. The sound of her magic is purely divine.

“Do you think the seid’s spells will return to the forest, now that the veil has gone?”

Her voice is quiet, lost in thought as she watches the lights rise through the branches. The sound of churning wind calls his attention. He sees the vulture swoop down, roosting itself in one of the low branches of a nearby tree.

Solas sits up on the embankment.

“Something draws near,” he says.

He feels Order turn to look at him. They exchange a glance. Her eyes follow his through the trees, finding the vulture that now watches them closely. He feels the dream begin to shift and weaken. Something is testing his wards.

Solas stands to his feet. Order is at his side in an instant. There is a splinter, a crack, a shatter, and he winces as the fabric is his magic is torn. Order takes his hand as he steps forward.

“We should leave,” she says.

His gaze sharpens.

“She is already here.”

He watches the woman step forward from the shadows.

“You give in so easily, old friend.”

She is a fragment, a wisp, nothing but a shadow of what she had been—yet she is still so powerful.

“Mythal.”

He lowers his head, a gesture of courtesy so ingrained in him it comes without thought. Her pale hair glimmers in the lights Order has cast through the trees. She stands poised, chin raising as her golden eyes gleam.

“Tell me,” she says. “Why it was so easy for you to divert from our plan. Did I truly mean so little to you? Am I no longer worthy of your vengeance?”

Her words burn him. Old pain stirs in his chest as familiar thoughts rise like a flame. Had he not done enough for her? Had he not come when she called, not given her _everything_ to prove his loyalty? His jaw flutters as he cages the words behind closed teeth.

“Nothing has not changed,” he says stoically. “My plan to destroy the Evanuris remains the same.”

Mythal lifts one pale, blond brow.

“I passed you my gift. Yet you have given my foci to a heathen. Someone who cares naught for me, nor for our People. You truly think she will use the relic in my name, for my will, and not her own?”

His dark brows come together in a frown. “Order has brought aid from the Void. She will not use the foci for either purpose. It is no longer necessary.”

Mythal’s brilliant eyes glimmer in the passing lights. They dance to Order, then back to him.

“Then you do not know,” she says coyly.

Caution coils through him. His face trains as he stiffens.

“Know what?”

The mage smiles. The look is tactful, yet somehow cold. She lifts one graceful hand. Her fingers curl inward in a wordless gesture. He hears Order cry out.

Solas turns swiftly, watching as she clutches her left arm, drawing it her chest. Color splinters between her fingers. The light of her hand warps and brightens, deepening until it is no longer gold, but a piercing, unholy red. The air fills with a distorted hum. 

“ _No_.”

He catches her as she falls, her features sharpening with pain. The light brightens, agonizing, blinding. He sees dark lines crawl their way down her face.

Solas curses, his hand reaching out, touching her skin as it turns cold.

“Please,” he says, watching as the light of red lyrium burns the color from her eyes. “Mythal, I beg you.”

It is all he can do. All he could ever do with her. _Will you not claim me, will you not keep me, am I not yours?_

“Do not take her,” he pleads.

The hum of lyrium begins to fade. He sees the red light as it weakens, dark lines receding from her face. Feral anger fights against the tears the threaten to seize control.

“I once called you my Champion. My greatest commander. The very Pride of Arlathan.”

Her voice is closer now. He can feel her, hovering behind him like a ghost. Order collapses forward against his shoulder.

“I am sorry,” she whispers softly.

“Do not be,” he holds her closely, arms tightening. “Do not be sorry.”

“Look at you now, old friend,” Mythal’s voice sweetens the air, “You are weak. Your heart has led you astray, away from me, and away from your People. You have failed me, Pride. And you will fall for your weakness—for _your hear_ t.”

“ _Dirthara-ma_.”

Order’s voice is ragged as it comes. His hands grip her shoulders in protest as she pulls away.

“You speak of weakness.” Her green eyes search his before rising to Mythal. Dark tendrils of magic begin to grow in the air. “You speak of fealty. Yet you denied him the moment you could no longer call him your servant.”

She stands despite his silent protest, coming to face the mage.

“You called him to you and then bound him. He trusted you, and you marked his face.”

A joyless smile spreads across Mythal’s poised features.

“He came to me willingly, child. Pride was always free to leave. I granted him status and power, and allowed him to help his People.”

Order’s striking features seem to dampen. Her ears lower.

“You took advantage of him,” she says.

Solas gazes up at Order against the light. He hears the whirl of wings on the air, watching the bird’s shadow dance like a dark spirit in her presence.

“And I do not know who you call _child_.” Her green eyes sharpen, deep and dark as the forest of the seid. “My People speak the language of the Ancients. I watched Arlathan rise from my place in the mountains, and heard the voice of the Titan as you claimed its power. Time knows me by name. Can you say the same?”

Mythal’s gaze rises to the vulture that roosts low in the branches above them.

“Your witch brings darkness, Pride,” she says to him.

“Not darkness,” Order’s voice is little more than a breath, as though something delicate hangs in the balance. “That is fealty, child. It is a god that does not abandon his own.”

Such grace her People give to him.

The scent of seidr grows thick in the air. Spirits roam towards them, eager to bask in the hum, to feel Order’s rise to meet it, and witness the language of the Ancients.

Solas revels in the song it creates. Formless words pass between the two seid, Loki’s voice filling the air like a holy curse, carried by the vulture that waits low in the trees. The image of Mythal seems to weaken. She flickers, eyes fleeting swiftly to his.

Order’s hand comes to a fist at her side. Lightning flashes as shadows sweep the forest. Wind kicks up in a flurry, branches bowing, creaking beneath its weight. Solas watches her hair whip around her in a flurry of red ribbons.

“Leave here, spirit.” Her voice is viciously calm, lifting on the air like a dark spell. “May you learn to mind wards that do not welcome you. Next time we will not be so gracious. My People name Fen’Harel as their own.”

He sees Order’s hand flicker red as her magic swells. By the time it reaches its peak, Mythal is already gone. Solas takes her arm as the color of lyrium fades. Order looks down at him, still kneeling in the soft grass. So long. So long it has been since he last felt so weak. So helpless.

She kneels in front of him as the wind begins to die.

“She will take you from me.”

His words are aching and broken. He curses himself for not acting. How easily Mythal could make him feel so powerless. She is right. He is weak.

Tears threaten to choke him as Order takes his face between her hands. He swallows down the feeling.

“She will not,” she says softly. “I promise you. She cannot take me.”

“ _Vhenan_.” His hand takes hers. “Her foci is powerful. Much more than mine. It will overcome you quickly.”

The tears are too many to hold back. Order draws him into her arms as he buries her face in her neck.

“What have I done?” 

The words leave him as nothing more than whisper.

“You have done nothing, my heart. Do not fear for me.” Her arms tighten around him. “I am much stronger than you think.”

He feels his tears soak her skin. Her fingers stroke the back of his neck as she whispers to him softly, magic swelling around them as spirits come to add their own. When the dream collapses it is sudden. 

He sits upright like a reflex. Falon is stepping through the doorway. Solas grabs the edge of the sheet and pulls it quickly over Order’s bare shoulder.

“What is it?” he asks.

He sees the agent’s trained demeanor falter. His features twist, eyes becoming burdened.

“My Lord.” His head bows, not in courtesy, but with sorrow. “I fear I have something I must show you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "He did not want a body. But she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face." - Cole (Trespasser)
> 
> Dirthara-ma: "May you learn" (used as a curse)  
> I'm feeling a double feature this week. I've been snowed in for nine days and its not about to let up. Writing keeps me sane.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double feature, as promised:  
> Lavellan must deal with the consequences of her actions. Is it war she will face, or something much more personal?

Ash settles on the charred stone of the city. Everywhere she looks she sees only the remains of what had once been. Buildings lie scattered, homes burnt and crushed deep into the earth, leaving its residence to litter the sidewalks, entombed in dust.

“They tried to flee.”

The words leave her in a quiet murmur. She kneels, touching the charred shoulder of what had once been a woman. What little remains of her nightgown is melted to her skin.

“They were ambushed. They fled without clothing.”

A shadow casts itself over Lavellan. She looks up to see the Dovakiin standing over her. The elf’s face is grim as she studies the body.

“Dragons do not ambush, Inquisitor,” she says. “This was a massacre.”

She slides the toe of her boot beneath the woman’s charred hand, lifting it in appraisal before dropping it back on the sidewalk.

“Then the Old Gods have returned.”

Solas comes to join them. He gives Lavellan a knowing glance, offering her his hand. She remembers Haven then. And she knows he does as well.

“The air here is foul,” he says. “We should continue to the rendezvous point.”

Lavellan frowns, taking his hand as he guides her to her feet. “If it is an Old God, then where are the Dark Spawn?” she asks.

“Dark Spawn is not a good sounding name.”

The Khajiit’s voice rises behind her. She glances to him as they continue down the road.

“They are the Dragon’s army. Corrupted soldiers made to do their bidding,” the Dovakiin says. “Or so the Thalmor has told me.”

“I am not a Thalmor. I do not know what that is.”

Solas’ voice is tight and irate. Lavellan smirks. A godslayer and an Elven god are ill-suited companions, she has found.

“Your armor says otherwise, friend. If the robes match…”

The Khajiit trails off, eyes flashing as Solas turns to look at him sharply. Lavellan nods toward the corner of a collapsed market building.

“Look,” she says. “I think I see them.”

She can see the end of Bull’s long sword peeking out from behind the fallen brick. Cole sees them and waves. He tears through the air like a wisp as he comes to greet her.

“You are here!” he says, hugging her tightly. Too tightly, much, much too—

“I cannot _breathe_.”

Cole gaps as he releases her. “I am sorry,” he says gravely.

“By the Nines, what is that?”

The Dovakiin steps up beside her. She is gazing straight ahead at the Iron Bull as he approaches. Her eyes gleam, handing meeting the hilt at her belt. Bull grins as he reaches Lavellan.

“Boss,” his large fist shoots forward to give her shoulder a good knock. “Looking good.”

His eyes flicker to Solas and his grin spreads. “Damn is it good to see you. Sober, and not holding a sword.”

Lavellan frowns as she looks to him. Solas lets out a sharp sigh.

“Please do not ask,” he says.

When Bull looks to their company his smile falls. He straightens, swinging the sword from his shoulders. His eyes fix on the Dovakiin.

“Woah,” he says. His gaze moves to the Khajiit at her side. “ _Woah_.”

“Are you Dragonborn?” the Dovakiin asks. Her sharp teeth flash in a growing smile.

Bull gives her an assessing glance. His eyes stop at the gauntlet of her armor. “Wait… is that?” He takes a half step back.

“It is not red lyrium,” Lavellan says. “Though I’m not entirely certain what it is.”

As they stand the Dovakiin’s dark armor seems to glow red from within. The same color ebbs and flows through the center of the blades at her belt. The Dovakiin’s eyes do not leave Bull.

“It is Daedric,” she says a little too keenly. “The blood of my gods.”

“There’s blood in there?”

Cole’s pale hand reaches to prod the sharp edges of her armor. Solas stops him.

“It could be dangerous. We do not know,” he says rather begrudgingly.

She knows nothing irks him more than being uncertain. Cole frowns.

“They are already dead,” he says. “I only want to know _how_ she killed them.”

“I’m sorry,” Bull’s voice cuts in. “Did you just say she killed them? As in, killed a god?”

The elf’s eyes narrow as Bull studies her. “ _Gods_ ,” she corrects, emphasizing the plural.

Lavellan sees Bull’s massive bicep twitch. His voice comes in a tight, caging whisper. “Oh _hell_ yeah.”

“We should continue on,” Solas says grimly.

Order gives him a conceding nod. They are vulnerable here. Its best to make quick work of scouring the city. Cole laces his arm through Lavellan’s as they start down the road, listening to Bull rattle off questions to the Dovakiin beside him.

“I have missed you, sister.”

Cole’s words pull at her heart. She remembers a time when another spirit, much like Cole, had once said the same. But that Compassion had left long ago. She knows Cole only says it to make her happy.

Lavellan notices Solas studying Cole as they go, and she knows he is remembering the same. His dark eyes grow wistful before they turn away. Luckily, at least for the moment, Cole does not seem to notice.

For a while they travel in grim silence. Some of the dead still linger in spirit, passing lights that weep and call the names of loved ones. Cole is always the first to approach. She can see Solas wishes to, but resolves himself to stand beside her, watching on in silence. She squeezes his hand before they move on.

Lavellan keeps her eyes to the sky, following the crows that flock near the inner buildings in search of survivors. But everywhere the turn there is nothing but wreckage. After more than an hour of silence she finds herself at the base of a towering gate.

She knows these doors. She has come dangerously close them once herself.

“Is this an alienage?” Bull’s voice is quiet as it comes.

The outer wood has been sealed with iron bars and wooden planks, as though to lock in what lie beyond. Casting her gaze to the ground she sees small lines drawn on the ashen stone. She takes a step back, watching the lines grow, long gnashing stripes, clawing their way from under the doors.

“They locked them in,” she says.

She can see hands, some small, others grown or withered, reaching out in a broken line beneath the gate. What little remains of them is charred skin and bone. Her left hand clenches.

“They could not flee. They left them to die.”

She hears the Dovakiin muttering something behind her. Though she does not understand the words, the cadence of her voice is soothing like a prayer.

“It is silent here,” Cole says softly.

Lavellan feels a hand rest tenderly on her shoulder.

“My heart.”

When Solas speaks it is in their language of their People. She turns to him. His eyes glitter as they take to hers.

“We should not linger here. We must move forward.”

A shadow passes over them in the sky. Lavellan feels the magic in her left hand grow warm. She looks up, expecting to watch a vulture fly overhead. What she sees is not quite so welcome.

The Khajiit makes a guttural sound, spitting onto the cobblestone.

“Dragons reek,” he growls.

Bull’s long sword is pulled free from its sheath. She and Solas cast a barrier in the same moment. They watch it circle, its voice claiming the sky in an unholy shriek.

“When it lands,” the Dovakiin says, “Do not stand in front of me. Or you will be humbled along with it.”

Bull releases a zealous growl as he looks to her.

“Now we shall see how good you really are, _godslayer_.”

The Dovakiin gains a dark sneer. Before she can speak the dragon swoops down over the wreckage and releases a belt of fire through the street. Heat warps through the air, testing their barrier with strength. Lavellan draws from the flames that climb in the air. Thunder rumbles as static builds at her fingertips.

“Shall I bring it down here for a fair fight?” she asks.

Magic sweeps the air as Solas’ rises to join hers.

“A lovely idea.”

Light flashes, coloring the sky. The world turns white and for a moment she is blinded. There is a crash, a sudden roar, and lightning strikes the dragon as it soars. The Khajiit gives a mirthful laugh.

“Cover your ears, friends,” he shouts with delight. “Its about to get very loud.”

The dragon crashes down into the wreckage with a powerful quake. A distorted hum resounds through the air. Solas casts a barrier over the Dovakiin as she steps forward, turning the blade downward in her hand. The elf draws in a heaving breath. A strange sensation sweeps over her. It raises the hair on the back of her neck.

The elf opens her mouth and thrusts her voice forth. At first Lavellan thinks she will shout, perhaps as Bull does before a good fight. But the sound is _deafening_. The ground beneath them gives a sudden jolt. Not just the ground, but the buildings, the wreckage, the _whole world_ seems to shake.

Lavellan stumbles as the Dovakiin’s words pierce the sky. The air ripples, colliding with the dragon at full force. She sees the creature stumble. The Dovakiin sprints straight toward it.

“ _Boss_?” Bulls shouts.

He stands ready, white knuckling the hilt of his blade. She sees the Khajiit running, firing arrows and laughing as he goes.

She nods to Bull. “Go!”

He runs at the beast horns first with zealous roar. Lavellan casts another barrier as Cole follows after him. Solas catches her arm before she can go.

“Something is wrong,” he says. “I cannot hear it.”

His brows twist in a frown. She does not know what he means. But the others have already gone. She cannot wait.

“Should we retreat?” she asks hastily.

“I…” He starts to shake his head. The dragon belts fire before either of them can cast a barrier. Pain sears up the side of her face, leaving her to cry out. The world is awash with light. Thunder cracks in the sky like pure reflex and the dragon gives a horrid screech.

She feels Solas steady her with one hand as his magic swarms around her. Dark wisps begin to rise from him like smoke. His blue eyes catch like a flame.

“Just stay close,” he says.

She senses the fabric of the Fade warp. The feeling of his spirit grows, becoming taller, impossibly large. Lavellan turns as he vanishes in a dark cloud. He is already ahead of her by the time she conjures her blade, the Dread Wolf in his terrible glory, massive jaws opening to take the dragon by the throat in a death grip.

Bull’s roar drowns the cry of the dragon as swings its tail, clamoring to stay on its feet. It lifts its wings in an attempt to gain air. When the earth shakes again, she knows the Dovakiin has spoken. The creature’s ragged wings cease their movement as if by command.

The Dread Wolf’s teeth tear, sending gore and flesh onto the grey stone. The dragon turns its head to pry him away. Lavellan sends lightning out like a whip, catching the beast by its head, pulling its neck taught. The Wolf’s jaws rip away a good portion of the beast’s throat. Dark blood showers down onto the street.

“Foul!” she hears the Khajiit cry.

A horrid stench assaults the air. The dragon shrieks as it collapses, writhing in the rubble. The Dread Wolf vanishes in a dark swirl of smoke.

“Solas!”

Lavellan takes off toward him. He lands on his knees several yards away. She sees him heave the dark substance onto the ground, coughing violently. His eyes lift to the image of the Dovakiin standing over the head of the dragon. She raises her blades.

“Don’t!” he cries out.

But her swords have already sunk in hilt deep, blood spilling down its dark scales in a squelching _crack_. Pain tears through her arm. She sees the blade of her hand turn red and a sharp cry fills her ears.

Deafening. The sound is impossibly loud. The world falters into blackness and she feels like she is falling. The taste of smoke fills her lungs. She coughs, gasping, watching light dawn overhead like fire.

“Order!”

She realizes she is being dragged backwards. Trees fly passed, the sound of seidr swelling frantically on the choked air.

“We must hurry.”

A voice fills her ear, soft and tender.

“Compassion?”

Lavellan coughs, the taste of blood thick in her teeth. She looks down and sees her hands and arms are stained red.

“He is right behind us, sister. He will cause war with what he has done.”

The pain in her arm grows. She cries out, clenching her teeth against the welling tears. The sky flashes and she sees Bull standing over her. His mouth moves, but she cannot hear what he says.

In the same moment his face is replaced with Compassion. His grey eyes are misty as he looks down, gazing at the tip of the blade that protrudes from his chest. Pain seizes her heart.

The trees of Arlathan bend beneath the wind that tears through the canopy. She hears Solas’ voice rise above it, howling her name. He is running towards her, dark hair wet and matted with blood. The side of his face deeply bruised.

“Inquisitor?”

Cole’s voice fills her ears. Someone is holding her.

“What’s…what’s happening?” she gasps.

The forest floor beneath her vanishes, flashing to grey stone, then back again.

“Take her!” she hears Solas command.

He is running towards her. She sees the dragon they have just slain. She sees the city left to ruin in ash and stone. Then it is gone. Firm hands grab her shoulders, and she comes face to face with the Sköll.

Darkness swarms in around them. They are standing in the sanctuary of her People. The magic here feels thin and empty. She can hear the well behind her as it sings.

“You cannot stay,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

His mouth comes to meet hers as his hands grip her shoulders. He pushes her. She is falling, falling backwards and down into the waters of the All-Worlds, watching his face twist in regret as it vanishes into darkness.

The pain is agonizing, unbearable. Her screams turn to sobs. The ruins of the city pass her by as she feels herself being carried down the street. She looks up at the face above her.

“Brother?”

Her brother’s features become pained.

“No Boss.” The voice is too deep. Not right. “It’ll be alright. Just…hold on.”

She sees her hand tucked against his chest, blistering red.

“It hurts,” she says weakly.

“Solas…”

The deep voice wavers. Another comes to meet it, dark and withered.

“I will take her,” he says. “Do you know how to reach the access point to the stronghold?”

The deep voice rumbles in answer. She feels cool hands take hold of her. Light vanishes in a dark cloud of smoke. She sees the towering frame of an eluvian and the world warps and changes.

The next thing she knows she is being wrapped in blankets. Her head is lying on a soft pillow. Solas is taking her hand, kneeling beside the bed, bowing his head to rest on her sore knuckles.

She says his name but he does not look at her.

“It was not an Old God,” he says softly. "It was Darkspawn."

His voice is rough and weary. She reaches out to touch him but cannot. The enchanter’s cuff has been removed, leaving her with what little remains of her arm.

“Somehow the dragon had...The Evanuris, they-"

Solas exhales sharply, turning away. He clears his throat. A moment of silence comes before he speaks again.

"The taint went to you when it was slain. It’s…eating away at your spirit. Feeding on the lyrium in your body.” His hands squeeze over her fingers. “Soon it will possess you entirely.”

She wishes to speak, but few thoughts come. Any that do only make her feel tired.

“You are wrong.” A soft voice fills the air. Cole’s eyes gaze down at her like glittering stars in the daylight. “Order is strong. She will not be corrupted, you will see.”

Solas lifts his face, dark eyes glowing in the shadows of the room. He gazes toward the ceiling. The light of the windows wash over him like a holy spirit. She thinks he looks quite like a god in that moment.

“We cannot wait for hope,” he says quietly. His eyes fall to her. “You will simply have to forgive me, _vhenan_.”

Tears burn her eyes. She has seen that look on him too many times to count. The look of duty. The look of regret. It tears at her heart.

“Forgive you for what?”

Her voice is wrong. So deeply and terribly wrong. His graceful features twist in pain. He reaches down to her, hand resting tenderly on her forehead.

“For what I must do,” he says softly. His fingers are cool against her blistering skin. “You will rest now.”

She cannot fight the sleep that takes her then. Her heart cries out, pushing against the darkness as it swarms in. The pain in her body grows with the song of red lyrium. She cannot seem to control the seidr as it comes. Part of her thinks he knows that.

The forest unfolds around her in an instant. The night sky dawns like a cold memory and the touch of her People's grows thick on the air.

Lavellan scrambles to her feet. She feels the pain recede from beneath her skin. The sound of lyrium is replaced by the low whisper of the cold wind. Trees surround her in an endless maze, sheltered only by darkness. He comes to her then, as though he is drawn. As though the very presence of her calls to him.

“I did not expect you to return so soon.”

His dark fur ruffles in the breeze as he comes to her, nuzzling his warm nose against her neck.

“Will you stay long?” he asks.

Her hand reaches up, fingers burying themselves against his chest.

“Something is wrong,” she says. “I did not mean too—”

A low growl crawls from the shadows. The hair rises on her neck as her gaze meets the darkness. Solas only has a moment to turn before the creature has torn its way through the trees, branches cracking, the canopy shuttering as the Dread Wolf lunges forward.

“Solas!” she cries. Though to which one, she is not certain.

The creature’s massive jaws take Solas by the throat, driving him to the ground as his teeth tear into flesh. The young wolf lets out a sharp whimper. All at once she knows what he means to do.

The Dread Wolf’s claws dig, blood soaking the dark soil, each tear, each gnashing of teeth sinking deeper, aiming to kill. Lightning floods the forest as she tries desperately to knock him back. But he is powerful, and the stun lasts mere seconds. She sees the young wolf struggle to his feet. His dark fur is matted with blood. She calls to him as he rises.

“ _Run_ ,” she cries.

But his pride will not allow it.

“I will not leave you,” his voice says.

She feels his power swell in the air, slow and thinned with pain. He stands to face the Dread Wolf as the creature lowers his head. A growl builds on the dark air.

“Pride!”

Seidr floods the forest with a terrible shriek. There is a crack, like the tail of a whip, and dark tendrils of magic swarm the Dread Wolf.

She sees a man coming toward her, one hand lifting as a rune lights his palm. His green eyes burn with mounting anger. Before Loki can cast the Dread Wolf slips from his snare. He lunges. This time not at the wolf, but at her.

Darkness swirls around her as he carries her through the trees. She can hear Loki’s voice as it calls to her through the night. In an instant she is dropped onto her back in the damp soil. Solas is on top of her, breathing wildly. The pale skin of his neck is smeared with blood.

Warm tears flood her vision.

“Why?” she sobs.

Footsteps are coming toward them. He casts a look over his shoulder. She sees his ears lower. When he turns back to her his eyes burn like veilfire, glittering with tears.

“I will not see you fall,” he says.

His hands take her face. He lifts her to him, his lips meeting hers quickly, urgently. A whisper fills her ears. She feels his magic reaching inside of her. It digs fervently, clawing into her mind with the same feral need he had himself. Images flash, memories of Haven, of winter snow and hesitant kisses. Of nights on the balcony at Skyhold, and soft whispers between warm sheets.

Long talks beneath the breach in Haven. Secrets shared, and careful touches outside their camps in the dark. Teaching her to dance in the Fade before the ball at the Winter Palace. He tears the memories from her viciously, each one fleeting, leaving nothing behind but a ghost of pain.

“Order!”

Loki’s voice rises over the cold wind. Dark smoke fills the air. When it clears, she sees nothing but the mouth of a beast bearing over her. It’s sharp teeth glimmer in the night. Footsteps surround them as the animal is caged in dark magic.

She feels herself being pulled away. A line of sentinels begin to bind the beast, and the animal does nothing to fight.

“Are you harmed?” Loki’s green eyes sharpen as they look her over. “Tell me that beast is not from Arlathan. Or do. Give me reason to raze another city to the ground.”

Order stares at him wordlessly as her mind swirls. Loki gives her an odd look. He reaches down, offering her his hand.

“We will know soon enough, I suppose.”

She lets him pull her to her feet. Behind him sentinels are leading the beast away, tethered in thick tendrils of magic. Order feels her head throb with some unknown pain. Loki’s hand squeezes. Her eyes fleet to his.

“Are we being coy now? Does the damsel not wish to thank her hero?”

His tone is sardonic. If she did not know him, she would have thought he was joking.

“Where is Pride?” she asks.

Loki gives her a rather flat look. He releases her hand.

“I had soldiers take him to the city for a healer. You are welcome, _Princess_.”

The word crawls under her skin. Her fingers curl inward. That earns her a haughty smirk.

“You mock me?” she asks. “After I have just been attacked?”

Her words are sharp. They only make him laugh.

“I have heard no mockery yet, my dearest. And that did not look like you were _attacked_. Not from where I was standing. Though it was certainly quite…aggressive.”

She gives him a questioning look. His pale green eyes turn from hers, as if in boredom. He lets out a resigned sigh. 

“Come,” he says. “I will take you to your father. I want to be there when you tell him what happened.”

He pretends not to wait for her, though his stride is slow as he starts toward the gates of their People. Order turns, gazing back at the empty air where the large beast had once stood. Something in her whimpers. She crosses her arms to shelter out the cold and follows Loki through the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still snowed in here. Still writing things just to make myself sad. Why am I like this?


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.  
> (Inspired by Better in the Morning by Birdtalker)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the time split. Mythology references at the end.

He can hear thunder far above the caverns; soft quakes that flourish and swell like the familiar hum of seidr. Memories make him ache. The faint scent of rain lingers in the stale air as he lies curled in the corner of the room. He craves for the freedom of sleep, but the bindings will not grant him rest. The bonds of the seid are not easily broken.

The damp soil beneath his nose smells strongly of his own blood. His body is sore without the presence of his magic. He can feel the sting of fresh wounds left by the sentinels, earned through a tireless night of questions he refused to answer.

“You are wise to not test your binds. I tested mine once. In this very cave, in fact. It is a patronizing endeavor.”

The voice that calls to him is painfully cavalier. He knows the eyes that watch him—knows that they narrow as they take him in. The Dread Wolf does not speak as he rises to his feet. His ears catch the soft patter of rain above them on the surface world, making him wish for home.

“It seems they have spared you of the venom, at least. How lavish.” Quiet footsteps wander closer. “While you are here, perhaps you would be so kind as to answer a question for me. Assuming you have no pressing matters at the hand.”

Loki raises his chin, as though he could possibly look down his nose at a creature so large.

“ _Bring me Pride_ ,” the wolf says.

They are the only words he will allow himself. His voice is rough, much deeper than it should be. He will not risk being found out. Not until he finishes what he has come to do.

“Ah, yes. Pride. The treasure of Arlathan.” The god’s word are cruelly sardonic. “So much to be gained by attacking a casteless god outside the city of the seid, completely ignoring the daughter of the King—who makes for a very healthy ransom, might I add.”

He is fishing. A game the Inquisitor has made the beast quite deft at. It is best to stay silent. The god strokes his chin in a mockery of thought.

“Oh, no. That’s right. You did not ignore her.” A grin blooms across his handsome features and the god begins to laugh. “Quite the opposite actually.”

The beast is not so easily tempted. The god clears his throat, and his laughter dies on the air.

“At first I was alarmed,” he says, studying the beast with no room for err. “You are obviously _somewhat_ powerful. Power by nature desires order, for one reason or another. I thought perhaps that desire had overtaken you in the moment.”

The beast only watches as the god begins to pace the floor. He tries to read him, to gauge some possible tell that Order is alright. That she is safe and without pain. More than anything he wishes to ask. But that would only tip his hand. He must keep his cards close.

“And yet…” a tormenting pause lingers, “There is only one who Order allows to take her as you did.” Loki’s green eyes rein into something…odd. Almost like regret. “She did not fight you. She would not. I suspect you knew that. Which is why you took her only after time had run out.”

The look fleets from him as quickly as it had come. The beast longs in that moment to speak. He had once called this god his friend. Perhaps even more than that. But trust is dangerous now. Most of all with him.

“You forget, my friend,” the god’s voice cuts the air with expertise. “You and I are not so different.”

Loki turns to face him, poised with all the air of a noble warrior, though his gaze holds something much more wicked.

“It is you and I who know the truth of ourselves. I can see it in your eyes. The look of certainty. The knowledge that there is nothing more frightening in this world than who we really are.” His gaze sharpens. “I would recognize you anywhere.”

The beast steps forth from the darkness. Shadows chase across its features as it comes to stand before the god. Silence swells, thick and dark on the air as it lowers its head, tasting the scent of his seidr with its deft nose.

“ _What will you ask_?” he growls.

Amusement drains from the god’s face as he tilts his head to gaze up at the wolf. Something grave settles over him. He lifts one groomed brow.

“How does it happen?” Loki asks. His voice is quiet on the air. “How does she die?”

The Dread Wolf, for all his wickedness and fault, feels his heart ache. He looks away.

“It is the most obvious reason for your return. Correct me if am wrong,” the god says.

The beast bows his head.

“She is corrupted. By an artifact of the Evanuris. It will take her within hours if she returns.”

A moment of silence comes. Loki’s eyes become distant. He exhales softly, a joyless half smile turning the corner of his mouth.

“Well,” he says quietly. “We cannot have that.”

His green eyes glitter as he turns from the beast. Seidr sweeps the air as he casts a rune onto the ground.

“She is fine. If that is something you wish to know.”

Loki’s voice is stiff as it comes. Light blooms from the ground as the rune opens a portal. The air swells with the pleasant sounds of chatter and soft footsteps.

“The Björn must march on Arlathan.”

Loki’s foot stops just above the portal. The god steps back as the light vanishes. When he turns, his noble features are sharp.

“I’m sorry?” he says.

The beast takes a step forward, but can go no further, feeling the tug of the chain around his neck.

“Tell him Falon’Din will come—that war will breach his city gates should the Evanuris not be vanquished. Urge that Pride should not be spared. That he betrayed his daughter’s trust to prowl among the seid without suspicion. Claim he did so for his master, to grant passage for his People.”

His heart aches at his own words. At the pain it will cause once she believes he has betrayed her. But she must, if it will spare her.

“Once the city is secure,” he says quietly. “On a new day, long from now, will you tell her…” The Dread Wolf turns his head, voice failing him in that moment, “That Pride had been sorry? That he died with only regret in his heart for all that he had done?”

Thunder rolls, shaking the cavern in a shower of soot and loose rock. The scent of old earth fills his nose. There is nothing then but silence.

He hears Loki step toward him. When he speaks, his voice is low.

“Do you know how Order was born?” he asks.

The sudden shift tunes his attention. The beast cannot dissuade his ears from perking forward. Though he knows a great many things, he does not know this.

“Order was born from one of my brother’s greatest moments. From the battle to protect our—” Loki stops himself, shaking his head— “ _His_ people from the Jötnar. From my people.”

His gaze hardens, glittering with the familiar burden of regret.

“I had betrayed him. In this very cell in fact, calling the Jötnar to my aid in a bid to overthrow his kind for locking me away. I knew that my people were eager for the chance to devour Asgard.”

Disgust rises in his voice as the god’s nose wrinkles with distain. The look quickly collapses into a withered sigh. “Yet when the battle came, I found I could not raise my sword to the only man who had accepted me as I was. Who claimed me as kin, and made for me a place at the table of his great hall. Something the Jötnar had never done.”

Loki raises his head, a look of pride overtaking his noble features. The look is admirable and well-earned.

“So I turned on my own people. I fought beside the Björn, and sent the Jötnar back to their realm in defeat. And in those final moments, as we watched them flee from us in god-woken fear, the son of Odin looked to me and said, “ _Well fought, my brother_.””

His final words linger in the dank air. The god’s green eyes gleam, treacherous and pained.

“I had betrayed him, yet still he did not disown me. Order came to him then, as though she were a promise. An oath that all was as it should be. That I had finally found my place. That I belonged among the Aesir, with my brother—with _our_ people. She is a promise I cherish, one that I love, and would perish to protect.”

Loki reaches forth. The Dread Wolf lowers his head, letting his breath greet the god as his hand comes to rest beneath his jaws. The touch is tender and deeply welcome.

“As would you,” he says then. “No one can damn you but yourself, dear friend. I will warn my brother of the Evanuris. But if you wish to tell Order you are sorry, you will tell her yourself.”

His fingers are soft as they stroke his fur. It is a grace Solas has forgotten he knew; to be loved by a god that accepts him as he is. One who asks nothing of him in return.

“Pride is not a wicked thing,” the god murmurs. There is an intimacy to the way in which he speaks, so hushed and close. “It demands freedom from tyranny. It lifts its sword to spite impossible odds. Pride is born when men face gods and refuse to bow. You are the holy right of every living soul to be free. Your place is at the table of my hall. With _our_ People.”

Solas leans into his touch. He smells like a memory, like seidr and garden herbs, and just beneath it, the faint scent of Order, ever haunting him, as though the god cannot keep away.

“I have taken her memory of what is to come,” Solas says then. His voice is no longer rough and obscured. “She will not understand this war, not the truth of it. You must keep it so. If she recalls the artifact it will take her.”

The soft patter of rain swells in the silence. Loki lets his hand fall away. What tenderness that grew between them begins to dampen.

“And if I cannot?” Loki says. “If she discovers your secret before the Evanuris are defeated? Order is canny, she is difficult to fool—as already you know.”

Solas sits, relaxing the binding around his neck.

“Then you will kill Pride,” his voice is cold and void of mercy. “Kill him the moment you suspect she knows more than she should. Keep her from ever possessing the idol in the first place.”

Loki turns away from him. He knows he wishes to protest. But he also knows that he will not—he cannot. He has said so himself. He would die to protect her; his most sacred and cherished promise. Solas’ only hope now is that he would kill for her as well.

\--

Rain drizzles off the eave and onto the balcony in a soft patter. Warm air drifts in through the opened door, carrying the scent of lilies that lay to rest on the nightstand. Aching pain greets him as his eyes open.

He feels the presence of silk sheets on his skin. The roar of a fire crackles softly at the foot of the bed. It takes him a moment to realize where he is. When he does, Solas feels his heart flutter.

Order is curled against him, her face buried tenderly in his chest. Her fingers clutch to the fabric of his shirt as she sleeps. Just beyond he sees Sacrifice and Compassion nestled together on the velvet lounge beside the balcony door.

He reaches down, intending to pull the covers over Order’s shoulder. Instead he grunts in pain. The soft hum of seidr fills the air, soothing the sting as quickly as it comes. The sound stirs her from her sleep. He feels her legs stretch as she pulls away, green eyes gazing up at him. His chest clenches at the sight.

“You stayed,” he says, fingers making their way to stroke her cheek. Her skin is delicate against his calloused hand. Words pain him, but he does not care.

She gives him a soft, sleepy smile. There is shuffling beyond the bed and he sees Sacrifice sit upright on the lounge. It seems to take him a moment to gain his bearings before he looks to him. The resemblance to his sister is striking. He makes some grumbling assessment about Solas finally being awake, which Compassion answers with, “I will fetch the healer,” without opening his eyes.

The small elf lumbers to his feet, hands rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he carries himself across the chambers and out the door.

“We were worried.” Order’s eyes glitter as she looks up at him. “I feared I had lost you.”

Her voices wavers as she speaks. His thumb gently strokes the high point of her cheek.

“I am not lost.” His voice is quiet and strained, pain hindering him from saying all he truly wishes.

“We have not slept but minutes between us,” Sacrifice makes a hearty groan as he stands to stretch. “If my father does not award you before his court, I will do it myself. You protected my sister with your life.”

He approaches the bed, green eyes red and rimmed in dark circles.

“They have taken the beast to the caves,” he says as he comes. “The guard tells us they are trying to find a motive for its attack. We are not even certain where it comes from. But for all it did to you, it seems its motive was to kill.”

Order sits up to face her brother. Solas tries to do the same, but she will not allow it. Her magic soothes the aching wounds that weep fresh blood as he moves. She looks down at him with a frown.

“Yes, but why?” she asks softly.

The memory of the night is fresh. He can still feel the beast’s teeth buried in his neck—still hear the words the reached out to him in the darkness.

_“Fool. Demon. **Pride**.”_

Order studies him closely. He can see she is lost in thought. The look vanishes as Compassion enters the room, trailing the healer behind him.

Order stands as the woman comes to check his wounds. The healer shakes her head to herself as her magic prods him silently. The tears on his neck are easily the most painful.

“I fear some of these may scar,” she says, assessing them carefully.

When she is finished she gives him a tonic and tells him to do nothing but rest.

Once she has left, Order sits on the edge of the bed, running her fingers through the top of his hair. Her warm skin is a welcome presence as she strokes the nape of his neck. The feeling is deeply calming. It makes him wish to pull her in, to hold her close, and lie with her beneath the sheets.

“You will stay in my quarters until you are well,” she says gently.

Heat burns across his face. Though she has welcomed him before, the offer still feels deeply intimate. It is a bold display of affection. Solas has never been claimed in such a way before. It fills him with a feeling he does not quite understand.

“Are you hungry, Pride? We can bring you something to eat.”

Compassion takes a tentative step towards the bed. He is still unsure of him, something which is quite clear. Even so, the spirit seems dedicated to mending that. He has even managed to stop calling Solas _the_ _Sköll_.

Order exchanges a glance with her brother. Sacrifice rolls his eyes.

“Father has a feast prepared for Loki’s return. I’m sure he won’t miss a few skimming’s off the top—given you are too _hungry_ to wait for my heart to cook a decent meal.”

His gaze grows rather pointed. Solas feels the urge to laugh, but manages to hold it down. The pain is a decent motivating factor.

“ _Hungry_ is a cruel understatement, brother,” Order retorts.

Sacrifice gives them both a devastating glare, looping one arm over Compassion’s shoulders and pulling him close. The elf blushes wildly at the gesture, oblivious to the siblings’ hostility.

“And you, Pride? Are you _hungry_ as well?” he challenges.

Solas chuckles, then winces, pressing a hand to his neck. “Starved,” he manages.

Order pulls his hand away from the wound with a disproving _tsk_. She stands from the bed to retrieve the cloth and wash bowl from the nightstand. Sacrifice seems to encourage Compassion toward the door before giving his sister a good smack to the arm as he passes.

She grins, reaching up to rub the sore spot as the door closes behind them.

“My brother finds his pair and suddenly he has lost his good humor,” she muses.

Order brings the wash bowl back to the bed. She takes his hand, now stained with fresh blood, and begins cleaning his fingers with the warm cloth. The scent of rich oils and healing herbs swirl in the air.

“He guards his heart,” Solas says. “Can you truly blame him?”

His voice is hoarse and dry. She gives him a disapproving look, but the expression quickly softens. Order sets the bowl on the floor and crawls back onto the bed. Her hand takes his, drawing it against her heart.

“ _Solas_ …”

Order’s green eyes soften. His fingers squeeze and he pulls her down next to him on the blankets. He draws her fingers to his lips and kisses them softly.

“You should have run,” she says then.

Solas frowns. Her eyes glitter as she studies him.

“I would not leave you,” he says.

“It could have killed you.” Her hand tightens over his, as though to cling to him. “What if the Evanuris sent the creature to be rid of you? What if they will send more? What if…”

Her voice wavers, words coming faster until they trail off altogether. Solas brushes the hair over her ear as her eyes search his.

“They would not,” he tells her. “Mythal would have warned me if that were the case.”

The look of doubt in her eyes burns him. Low thunder rumbles beyond the open balcony, and lightning flashes across her striking features.

“My heart…”

Solas retracts his hand.

“Don’t,” he says softy.

He knows what she will say. That Mythal does not deserve his loyalty. That she does not look after him the way Loki watches after her. That his patron has abandon him and he should not hope for her favor.

Order touches his cheek.

“Forgive me,” she murmurs. “You are right, my love. We will send one of grandfather’s ravens and invite her to our gates. I would like her to see that Pride is well tended to.”

He lifts his gaze to hers. Order’s words make his heart clench. They are certainly not what he expected. Would she really claim him so openly before of Mythal?

The door to her chambers open and Sacrifice enters rather swiftly. He is hauling Compassion with one arm, carrying a basket of food in the other. His hair is winded and his breath comes at a wild cadence.

Order sits up, twisting around to face the pair as the approach the bed.

“What happened?”

Compassion pulls the tail of his dark robe around to examine, eyes widening at the state of the torn fabric. Order rises swiftly to her feet.

“Are you harmed?”

She goes to the small elf, who blushes madly as Order takes his hand and begins turning him for inspection.

“I am alright,” Compassion says shyly.

Sacrifice sets the basket of food down on the edge of the bed in a pointed gesture.

“Loki has set war dogs loose in father’s tower,” he says, still struggling to catch his breath. “They are tearing apart the feast, and the ornaments, and chasing attendants through the halls.”

Order looks to him with a frown. “Why?”

It is perhaps the best question to ask when it comes to Loki. Fortunately, it also happens to be one of Order’s favorite questions to ask. Sacrifice throws one hand in the air as he shakes his head.  
“Why does Loki do anything?” he exasperates. “You are asking me to describe the mind of a mad man. Perhaps he wanted to create a diversion so he could wreak havoc worse somewhere else.”

Order’s eyes narrow in thought. “But he could have done anything to create a diversion. Why evoke the war dogs? They cannot be sent back until a battle has been won.”

She looks to Solas then. He winces, stifling a painful grunt as he attempts to sit up on the bed. Order begins to protest, but Sacrifice extends a hand, aiding him as he brings his feet onto the floor. The stone is warm and smooth against his bare feet.

“Perhaps he suspects as you do,” Solas says to her.

Sacrifice rests one hand tenderly on his back. His touch lingers, more affectionate than aiding. By now Solas has grown used to such things. It is the custom of the seid to cherish a sibling’s pair as their own.

“What is it that you suspect?” Compassion asks, gazing up at Order.

For a moment she does not answer. She is staring at Solas, gazing at the wounds on his neck. He realizes he can feel fresh blood weeping onto his skin. Order’s eye becomes distant. He sees her left hand clench, almost like a reflex.

“Sister, what is it?” Compassion takes her hand.

Order shakes her head. Her eyebrows knit together. “I suspect that someone in Arlathan is trying to kill him,” she says. 

The room falls silent then. He can hear the chaotic yips and scratches of the dogs as they tear through the hall. He has to admit it is a rather genius ploy. Evoking war dogs in the Björn’s tower will leave the whole city up in arms until the dogs are revoked. It was the quickest way to guarantee safety.

“I have proposed to Pride that we send a raven to Mythal’s city. Perhaps she can shed some light on the incident.”

“Will she come?” Compassion wonders.

“Of course she will come,” Solas says.

The young man blushes. Solas trains himself, realizing his words were too harsh. The question is an innocent one.

“My apologies,” he says. “That was unkind.”

He is surprised when Sacrifice does not chide him. He merely takes the food from the edge of the bed and calls Compassion to help him set the table. The look of pity he gives Solas as he goes burns deeply.

Order approaches the bed. Her brows remain knit as she takes his face in her tender hands.

“She will come,” Solas says. “I am certain.”

Order does not argue. She strokes his cheek, kissing the scar that still lingers on his forehead. Solas leans into the gesture. He takes her left hand delicately in his and gives it a gentle squeeze.

Mythal will come. Just as he had come for her. She had made him, the Pride of Arlathan, its most sacred promise to never bow, nor to fall. He had changed so much for her. She would not make his sacrifice in vain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Jötnar: contrary to popular belief, the term 'giant' is an Anglo-Saxon mistranslation. To the ancient Norse jötunn (singular) meant 'devourer' as they personified ice and fire. They were frequently enemies of the Aesir.  
> -The story Loki tells is my optimistic, de-Christianized version of Ragnarök  
> -Thor really does call Loki 'brother' in mythology, despite the fact they aren't blood related 
> 
> Mildly obsessed with the parallels between Solas and Loki 
> 
> *To anyone who enjoyed the Skyrim elements, my plan is to continue them. Still a sucker for crossovers. But also plot.


End file.
